


Hear Me Out

by Jillypups



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane is bodyguard to Senator Ned Stark. When Stark's daughter, Sansa, needed rescuing from a traumatic incident Sandor was sent for her. Since then they've become... what? Friends? Something more? All it takes is a single night out to put the pieces together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pretty light hearted, "Now Kith" kind of fanfic. Any dark nasty stuff is in the past and will only be mentioned as past tense, which is why I've decided not to taG as rape/non-con.
> 
> OH GOD this is my first ASOIAF fanfic, and only the second fanfic I've ever written. Go easy on me please. :)

Thursday Night, 11:45pm

It was dark in the snug den and tinged with blue, as the only light came in flickers and glows from the television in the corner. She was bathed in it there on the couch, stretched to her full length in sleep that was restful. On her stomach, with her face turned towards the television, a fine curtain of hair had blessedly fallen forward, shielding her eyes from much of the distractions on screen. There was a click, and the door to her father’s office opened, casting a rectangular bloom of warm yellow light against the far wall, and partially on her sleeping form. It shrunk quickly back to nothingness as Sandor stepped through and closed the door behind him. He stood with the door at his back, waiting patiently for his eyes to adjust. He blinked hard, once, and focused on the corner furthest from the television, letting his eyes grow used to the darkness before blinding himself by looking at whatever show had lulled Sansa into her slumber.

At last he could see relatively well, and made the short way to the sofa, his otherwise heavy footfalls silenced by lush carpeting. He gazed down at her, expression unreadable even here, with no witnesses to point a finger, to ferret out his feelings, to ridicule him. The only betrayal was the soft sigh that escaped him as he squatted down on his haunches, his large figure blocking the light from the television, so that Sansa was at last offered a respite from its interference. The sudden change in atmosphere caused her to stir, however, and she frowned, smacked her lips once and swallowed as she twisted onto her side, facing him. He resisted all urges to brush her hair from her face, to rest a hand on her cheek and run his thumb across her lower lip, to whisper her name and rouse her with all the gentleness he had inside him.

She did the rousing herself, however, raising her eyebrows so that her lids eventually followed, and Sandor was caught, a bug in amber, when she focused on him, eyes black in the low light, though he had long ago memorized the depths of that blue. She smiled easily, lifting a hand to rake her hair back before setting it lightly on his shoulder. He wanted to tip his head so his cheek could rest on the soft skin over her knuckles, but it was the scarred cheek, and that helped him to tamp down the desire.

“How long have you been there? Wait, how long have _I_ been here?”

“I? Not long at all. You? At least an hour. You were barely awake when I went in to meet with your father.”

She used the hand on his shoulder to help push herself into a sitting position, and Sandor flexed the muscles of his thighs, planted his toes more firmly to the ground, determined to be her rock. He didn’t waver a centimeter under the additional pressure, though inside he wilted when she removed her hand from him. When his irritation with her had melted into affection, desire and want, he couldn’t pinpoint, it was that distant in the half year he’d known her.

“Gods, it must be late,” Sansa said, her hair a tousle on the right, all smooth red river on the left. He chuckled, and she eyed him, a sleepy, playful suspicion in her gaze. “What’s so funny? Am I covered in drool?” She wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her fingers, squinting down at them to see if that was the culprit for his laugh.

“No, that,” he said, gesturing to the snarl of hair high on the side of her head. He was seconds from touching it, smoothing it down, before she set about patting it awkwardly, realization settling in as she laughed and pushed fingernails against her scalp, pulling the tangle free. “D’you want to stay here tonight? Or will you be wanting a ride home?”

“Are _you_ staying here?” She asked without any of the shyness she had displayed six months ago when he had whisked her away from a nasty situation in Arizona. Sansa had been working on her masters in English there before abandoning it abruptly. A bad breakup, the gossip had said. It had been worse.

“Your father and I have just arranged backup so I can take this weekend off,” he said carefully. “Though I will stay if you clock me back in.” Ned had, since the situation in Tucson, let Sandor know quite plainly that Sansa’s needs, for the time being, trumped even his own. If Sansa needed him, he was to be hers. Sandor had no complaints, at least not since being put on a plane six months ago.

“And what if I do?” She pulled her long body into a tailor sitting position, but remained directly in front of him. He maintained his squat; he’d not stand or sit back no matter how his muscles ached or the tendons in the arches of his feet burned. He’d not pull away from her.

“You’ve no money to pay me time and a half, Miss Stark.” He tipped his head to the side, smirking up at her, at once feeling and dismissing the rough crinkle of scars on the side of his mouth, as always. It was there, it wasn’t there. It was everything, it was nothing.

She considered him a moment, amusement and ease in her expression, regardless of all she’d been through. She lifted her chin, gazing down at him with mock haughtiness.

“How about this, then, _Mr. Clegane_ ,” she said imperially. “Go home and do whatever it is Big-Bad-Wolf bodyguard types do in their downtime, and then promise me you’ll come out with me on Saturday night. There’s a blues band I want to see, but none of my friends still live around here, and dad is too busy with work while mom is too busy helping Bran. I haven’t been out since I got here, aside from apartment hunting. Please?” She tipped her head to mirror him, and grinned. “ _Pretty_ please?”

He did, or at least he thought he did, a stellar job of looking exasperated. His eyes rolled skyward. A reluctant sounding groan escaped him. He huffed finally, raising his shoulders in defeat as he nodded. She let out a delighted “Hah!” and clapped her hands against her knees, a judge bringing down the gavel.

She stood then, all long legs and hair to match, offering him a hand up. He snorted, unable to hide a smile as he accepted it, though he put none of his weight into her as he stood. Had he done so, he’d have pulled her right over. Yoga enthusiast she may be, but even at 28 she was still no match in strength for him. She stood her ground as he rose to his full height, and damn if the television wasn’t still on, casting its stark and unflattering light against the side of his face that was reworked and rewired by scars. But her eyes never wavered, nor left his, and there was no guarded revulsion as there had been on that long, nonstop flight back to O’Hare, when he could feel her gaze flicker over his features every few minutes, all wonderment at the beast her father had sent to fetch her. No, now there was nothing but ease and friendship, comfort and humor.

“Come on, walk me out and lock me out,” he said, clearing his throat. He gestured for her to lead the way, and she rolled her eyes with a smile, walking down the dark hallway and towards the front door, both of them adjusted well enough to the lack of light to see clearly. Absentmindedly he flicked on the light in the foyer, and the sudden pop of light from the chandelier momentarily blinded them both.

“Ugh,” she said, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes and stepping backwards away from the brilliance of the foyer. Sandor, eyes shut and cursing, didn’t budge from the hallway, and so when Sansa retreated, there was nowhere to go but into him; her bare heel bore all her weight on his toes, and he swore again. She swore with him, trying to regain her footing, but this time caught herself against his other foot, and stumbled to the side. He caught her easily, an arm around the waist, and righted her to her feet.

“Bloody hell,” he said, “Watch yourself, now, you’ll take us both down to the marble.”

Sansa laughed. “Shouldn’t have turned on the _bloody_ light then,” she said in perfect mimicry of his accent.

“Nearly 30 and still as wobbly as a fawn,” he muttered, and she swatted him soundly.

“Hey now, don’t age me, buddy.”

He growled a few more choice words as they blinked owlishly, regaining their vision, before they made it to the doorway, Sansa still laughing merrily. He opened the door and glanced over his shoulder before stepping out, offering her the scar-free side of him. “And quit your laughing, Sansa, before you wake your brothers. Save that music for your blues club, little bird.” She raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Tweet, tweet, Sandor,” she chirped in a cartoony voice. “Good niiiight.”

 

Sansa closed the door behind him with a soft click, pressing her forehead to it as she slid the chain into place and followed up with the rest of the locks. She was grinning, and her lip was caught between her teeth. _Music_ , he’d said. _Little bird_ , he’d called her. Well, that was a first with them, but Sansa was no babe in the woods when it came to relationships. Pet names meant something, whether it was between father and child, sister and brother, or between friends and lovers. She filled her lungs with air and let it out in a rush before walking back from whence they’d come, but instead of returning to the couch in the den, she walked through the room towards her father’s office, knocking softly.

“Come in,” Ned called, his voice weighted with the usual fatigue and mild exasperation. She smiled; he brought out a tenderness in her though they had never been exceptionally close, not like with her mother. Perhaps that was the very reason she could still regard him warmly.

“Hey,” she said softly as she stepped in. He looked up and smiled, sitting back in his chair.

“No, don’t worry, leave it open,” he said when she moved to close the door behind her. “I need to be reminded there’s a world beyond all this,” he said, sweeping a hand towards the mountains of paperwork covering up the beautiful desk her uncle Benjen had made while teaching Jon the trade somewhere over in Oregon. She sat in the chair opposite her father, the leather still dented somewhat from Sandor’s large frame. It made her smile again, and she sat in girlish silence, tracing the elegant pattern carved along the desk’s edges, lost in her thoughts. _Little bird._

“Sansa?”

“Sorry,” she said, snapping her head up with a little laugh. “Sorry,” she repeated, “I just passed out on the sofa for like an hour and now I can’t sleep. I don’t know what to do with myself, now.”

“You should get into politics, then. This little burst of late night alertness could be put to good use,” he sighed. He gazed at her, brow furrowed. “Did you not want to go back to your apartment? If you’re feeling restless you could always put more stuff away, arrange your furniture. Sandor was just here, he could have driven you.”

“No, I know. I think I’ll head back in the morning. I…” she trailed off, returned her attention to uncle Benjen’s handiwork.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Sansa,” her father said softly. “You take as much time as you need.”

“I need to get over it eventually,” she murmured. The little giddy rush Sandor had left her in faded, and now she just felt small, younger than her years, weak. “I can’t keep freelancing forever, not in this city.”

“You have your trust fund, Sansa, you are more than taken care of. I uh, _trust_ you haven’t ripped through it in three years?” He said, trying a grin through his pun. Silly humor was not his forte.

Sansa laughed. “Nice dad joke, dad. No, I was very careful out west. And I do make money from the articles online, I just want to be able to take care of myself. And being borderline agoraphobic isn’t helping that.”

“Give it time,” he reiterated, leaning far over the wide desk to grasp her hand. He squeezed it gently before releasing her. “There are plenty of bedrooms in this house, plenty of room for you. You’ll know when you’re ready.”

“Well, actually, I think I’m going to head out Saturday night to go hear some music,” she said, eyes on him, gauging his reaction. He was surprised, but that was to be expected.

“Are you? Well, that’s wonderful. Are you, you know, are you going to go by yourself?” He attempted nonchalance, overly so, and Sansa could tell he wasn’t sure whether to be cautious or casual, and ended up sounding absolutely guilty of being a father. She smiled.

“No, I asked Sandor to come with me before he left tonight.”

“Sandor?” Ned sat back again, clearly flummoxed over this information; Sandor Clegane was probably the last person he would have pictured Sansa asking.

“Yeah. You know, he and I have spent a lot of time together over the past few months. We’re, you know, we’re friends. And besides,” she added, crossing her legs and sitting forward, “none of my friends are in town anymore. Arya never returns my texts and quite frankly, I think she’d vomit if I asked her to go listen to a blues band.”

“Blues? Huh. I like blues,” he said wistfully.

“Oh so you’re free on Saturday all of a sudden?” she grinned. She had him there.

“No. But your mother enjoys it too. She doesn’t have to attend Saturday’s function with me, either.” His voice was soft and low, pleading.

Sansa raised her chin and leaned back. The playful banter had been like the strings of a guitar, strumming along pleasantly, but with Ned’s careful offer, they snapped under so much pressure. Sansa sighed. “Don’t ask me that, dad. You said you’d give me time.”

“Why you punish her harsher than you do me…”

“She _knew_ him, dad!”

“But it’s because of me, my _career_ , that he’s…”

“She _knew_ him, she had to have known what he was capable of, but still off I went to the U of A to study under his wing.” She uncrossed her legs and stood up smoothly, wishing she had had the courage to let Sandor take her to her apartment tonight. But she’d have to settle for the bedroom down the hall from her parents’, like some child. “Goodnight, dad. I’ll head home first thing tomorrow.” She swept out of the office.

“Sansa,” he called, but she closed the door behind her, shutting him out from the world beyond.

 

Sandor had spent the last thirty minutes pacing in his apartment, beer in hand. It was three rooms of an old house, kitchen, living room and bedroom with a bathroom off the hall, and he was beating a path into the creaking floorboards of the living room, between the worn sofa and coffee table, towards the desk in the corner, and back again around the coffee table. _Sansasansasansa_ rolled around and around in his head until he thought he’d go mad with it, with the dreams and hopes and trepidation that had, over the past months, attached themselves to her name, had changed the meaning altogether.

He had switched on the television, but it reminded him of their exchange only an hour before, and so he turned it off, standing still in the sudden silence. Music, blues, concert. He didn’t know shit about blues. He sat down at his laptop, googled blues. He scrolled through until stumbling upon a name that appealed to him, Pinetop Perkins. He switched applications, pulling up iTunes and downloaded a couple of albums. He resisted the desire to pace, so he got a fresh beer and returned to his chair, leaning back and letting the music wash over him.

He never would have pegged Sansa for a blues fan, but then, she wasn’t two dimensional, and after gods know how many car rides with her, he knew that her musical tastes did range from the obvious to the bizarre; Lords of Acid to Frou Frou (whatever the fuck a Frou Frou was), Massive Attack to Ella Fitzgerald. That had been on just one trip to IKEA, after she had finally found an apartment (not far from him- he could jog there in 30 minutes in good weather). He swigged his IPA and sighed, setting down the bottle to hold his face in his hands.

 _This fucking face_ , he thought. Sandor had long since given up trying to hide the nastiness, and while he never thought he’d have the courage to cut his hair, he had, for a couple of years now, ever since he turned 35, worn his hair in a knot at the base of his neck. But now he wondered if he shouldn’t sweep it over the scars as he had since the blasted scars had healed. Would she care? Would she notice? Would she laugh at him?

No, Sandor decided. There’d be no laughter aimed at him, not from her. There had been disgust, or wariness, or a lack of understanding at first, those first few weeks where she was a shell of the woman she was now. A broken thing, as wounded on the inside as he was on the outside, she had recoiled from him, literally, when she first took a good look at him. That had been a long plane ride.

He had literally needed to carry her, in his arms, from where he found her in her little house in the desert. Ned had given him the address, the plane ticket, the money, and he’d tracked her down in no time at all once his plane landed. The front door had been locked, but he had pounded on it. She opened it when he spoke her father’s name, his own, that he was there to bring her home. But then she had collapsed on her sofa, curled into herself like a burned piece of paper. Well, that had been something Sandor understood all too well. And so he had carried her to the car, placed her in the back seat, and when she had sunk to her side, he lifted her legs and tucked them in as well on the seat. Had retrieved her bag, put it in the trunk. And then he had taken her to her father.

But now she was stronger, stronger than he’d ever have imagined given what she’d gone through at the hands of not one but two monsters. She had gotten over his scars, and had asked him where they come from. He’d been honest with her, and after that, and giving her a good look at the ruin of his face when she asked if she could, it was over. She was over it, and then they became easy companions when she needed him. Somewhere down the line, what with him serving her father and then helping her when Ned insisted, his constant presence within the house, they’d gone from companionable to friendly. And now there was going to be a date.

“Fuck,” he said, picking up his beer to swallow down the rest of it, swiping at the ring of condensation left behind on his desk. He traced the faint watermark, around and around. _Sansasansasansa. _“It’s not a date, you bloody idiot.” All the same, Sandor stood up and strode into his bedroom to figure out what in seven hells he was going to wear when he took the prettiest girl in Chicago for a night on the town.__


	2. Chapter 2

Friday Morning – 10am

Sansa woke up groggy, feeling like she was underwater, and knew instantly that she had overslept. The morning felt used up, and the sun bleeding between the downturned blinds was warmer than a 6am wakeup would have offered her. She groped around under her pillows where she kept her phone, and sure enough, the alarm had come and gone, unanswered and forgotten. The conversation with her father had riled her, but the late night nap and exchange with Sandor were the culprits for her ruined nights’ sleep. Only one of them vexed her.

Reluctant to get out of bed just yet, she checked her phone for texts and emails; she saw that Arya had sent “blues? gag me” when Sansa, wide awake at 3am, ventured a text asking if she’d go, and the older sister chuckled to see how well she knew the younger, making a note that the middle of the night seemed to be the best time to get ahold of her. The only email was from her editor, over nothing important, so she starred it and closed out of Gmail, tossing the phone on the pillow neighboring her own. She wished it were Saturday, and realizing how excited she was to go out with him made her laugh aloud with closed eyes. She swallowed it down soon enough, not wanting to attract attention to the fact that she was awake, but it merely silenced itself into an idiotic grin.

Her father would surely be in the office by now, and wild-eyed Rickon with him; Sansa had to admit her father’s preemptive strike in hiring Rickon for website maintenance had probably helped keep her 20 year old brother out of jail. And so far, so good on keeping the crazy women he fell for out of the house, but when he saved up enough money for his own place, they’d all kiss that security goodbye. Sansa perked up her ears but didn’t hear much of anything. Great. Bran had probably left for class, which meant it was just her mother, rattling around the house, and Sansa, cocooned in goose down and Egyptian cotton. She was in desperate need of a shower to help wake her up, and a few cups of earl grey, but she didn’t want to alert her mother to her presence. Instead, she slid out of bed, contemplating taking the bedding with her to her apartment, and got dressed, the sun painting her body with tiger stripes of light.

She swore under her breath, realizing how much of her stuff was here, and went about the room, folding clothes and shoving random toiletries into her duffle bag. She felt a clench in her belly, realizing that the words she had thrown at her father the previous night meant she’d be leaving here for good, as far as sleepovers and the suspension of reality went. And living this far out in the suburbs meant she’d need to drive, which meant she’d be praying to the seven that her car had gas in it. Relying so much on Sandor, his presence, his driving, his everything, really, meant that her car had been mostly abandoned to the reckless whims and fancies of her youngest brother. Fingers crossed it wasn’t totaled, quite frankly.

Her thoughts on cars and Sandor brought a sudden realization to her: they’d not settled on how they’d get there, who would pick up whom. Would he come get her? Would he know she’d be at her apartment? Gods, should she call him? Maybe text. She was the one who asked him out so should _she_ go get _him_?

“It isn’t a date, moron, calm down,” she muttered through a smile, crouching down to shove a sports bra into her bag and zip it up. She’d call him later, she decided. Sansa surveyed the room, and when she ascertained that all of her belongings were packed up, she slipped on her flip flops, pulled her hair into a pony tail, and headed downstairs.

 _Little bird._ His words blossomed in her mind, nudging through all her other thoughts and musings, and she found herself grinning again. She rubbed a hand over her face, trying to wipe the girlishness away as she headed through the foyer to the row of five hooks in the kitchen, where backpacks and little sweaters used to hang, and now various sets of keys dangled instead. Finding what she wanted, Sansa closed her fingers over the keys to her Jetta, hoping it didn’t smell of cigarettes, or worse, and went down the hall towards the door to the garage, that stupid grin impossible to get rid of.

“You’re looking happy,” her mother said, and Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin. Catelyn was sitting in the living room, book in hand, in the one chair that gave her a good view of the hall where Sansa stood like a deer in headlights.

“Am I?” she said. “Lucky me, I guess. I’m uh, I’m taking my car, so tell Rickon I’m sorry. He can come get it from my place in town if he wants it back. Maybe dad can drop him off after work.”

“I’ll let him know, thank you. You’re really sure you’re ready to go?” Her mom’s voice was soft like cashmere, and it made Sansa ache for a hug, to crawl into her lap and bury her head in that warm space between shoulder and neck like she did when she was a girl.

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s time. I thi- I know it’s time. I have all that stuff to organize anyway. I don’t like leaving things undone,” she said. Cat smiled, and Sansa’s heart broke. She had no idea how to cross the great divide that had yawned open when she saw how truly sick her mother’s childhood friend was. It had blown her world over like a house of cards. Ground zero had been her relationship with her mother.

“I know you do, sweetie. You’re such a good girl.”

“Not a girl anymore,” she said, her voice sharp. She almost regretted it, when her mother’s face fell. Cat nodded, standing up and setting her book pages-down on the arm of her chair. She hugged herself as she walked towards her daughter, attempting casual just as her father had. On her mother, it just looked forlorn.

“Your father tells me Sandor is joining you tomorrow night for a blues band playing in the city,” she said, trying to pave over the bump in the road of conversation. “It sounds fun. I love blues,” she said, eyebrows raised slightly, ever hopeful.

“Well, I loved grad school, once upon a time. Sometimes we don’t get what we want, huh?” Feeling righteous and like a spoiled brat all at once, Sansa twisted the door knob and wrenched it open. Cat took a few steps back, but swept in between her daughter and the doorway to the garage, her hand firm on the frame. Her expression was just as set, but there was a pleading in her eyes.

“That’s not fair, Sansa. Don’t leave like this, please. You have to know that I _never_ would have sent you to study with Petyr had I know his intent. Yes,” she said, holding her other hand up as Sansa’s mouth opened to retort. “Yes. I know he had feelings for me, but hells, Sansa, kids always have feelings. I had no idea the extent to which it ran, and I had no idea he was going to make some sort of, ugh, some sort substitute for me. Please. _Please,_ tell me what to do, rage at me if you have to, just please forgive me. Stop hating me,” she begged, her voice stretched thin from emotion. They stood there, staring at each other, Sansa’s eyes hard and sharp as glass, before something broke in her.

“He called me by _your name,_ ” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. Catelyn gasped, her blue eyes wetting instantly to match her daughter’s.

“Maiden, Mother and Crone, my poor girl,” and before Sansa had time to react or pull away, she was pulled into her mother’s arms, and Sansa was enveloped in her perfume, the warmth of her body, the softness of her sweater. The duffle bag slid off her shoulder and hit the floor with a thump, but neither woman moved until Sansa wound her arms around her mother’s neck. Her single, ragged sob was muffled against Cat’s body. There was silence for a while before Cat started to soothe her second eldest, smoothing her hair back towards her ponytail holder, kissing her temple, rubbing her back.

After several minutes, they pulled apart a bit, and Sansa, mastering herself at last, looking at her mother with watery eyes. “Mom, you have to know I could never hate you,” she said. “It’s just been hard, you know, remembering. It was harder, pulling it apart and removing you, the past you and the, the _now_ you. Like I could see you in him. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You don’t have to, my sweet Sansa. You don’t have to explain anything. I can’t say I understand, I never will fully, but I think I get what you’re trying to say.” And they hugged again, and eventually moved to the loveseat in the living room, and there they sat for a good hour before Sansa finally left for her own apartment, words sparse and scattered throughout. But she found the space between her mother’s shoulder and neck, and it was as comfortable a place for her heavy head as it had been all those years ago.

 

“Bronn will be there in thirty minutes,” Sandor said into the phone, throwing an arm over the back of the sofa and leaning back to glimpse the clock on the microwave in the kitchen. “In the meantime, if you need me, call me. I can be at your office in five minutes.” He’d chosen the location of his place for exactly that reason.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Ned said before clearing his throat. “Listen, Sansa told me you two are heading out on the town.”

Sandor froze. In his nervous turmoil, he’d completely forgotten the complexity, the intricacies of the situation. Being in love with a woman whose father signs your paychecks was one thing, but that was buttoned securely inside him. Taking her out, though? That was a tangible, real thing out there that everyone could pick up and examine, scrutinize and judge for what it was, or what it wasn’t. Sandor cursed the seven and rubbed his forehead, eyes closed.

“Aye, she asked if I’d go, seeing as you and Mrs. Stark are busy, and she’s no friends in the city anymore.”

“That’s kind of you to insinuate she was dying to go out with Cat and me,” Ned said dryly. “At any rate, I was just hoping you’d keep tabs on her. Not- not like a chaperone, she’s a grown woman. I just mean, make sure it doesn’t overwhelm her. Let me know if she gets… agitated? Withdrawn, upset.”

Sandor exhaled a slow, silent breath of relief. “Of course, Ned. You know I would.” He opened his eyes and tipped his head back, gazing up at the ceiling fan high overhead, moving in lazy circles, blowing air gently down that he could only truly feel on one side of his face.

“I do. I’m glad it’s you going with her, to be honest. I was surprised at first, but it makes sense. You two are friendly, and I know she feels safe with you. At this point, that’s all I could wish for.” A curious creature perked up in Sandor’s chest when Eddard said that, and he recognized the thing as hope.

“I’ll watch out for anything out of the ordinary, I can promise you.”

“I’m pretty encouraged by her desire to go out. Cat gave me a ring before you called, and told me she and Sansa had a very positive conversation, and Sansa’s even in her apartment now. She wants to stay there tonight.” Ned was a stoic man if Sandor had ever met one, but there were questions and insecurity in his voice as he spoke, and Sandor couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.

“You’d like me to swing by, eh?”

After a few beats of silence, Ned cleared his throat again. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. Just… Just don’t tell her I sent you. I don’t want her to feel crowded or like we’re babying her.”

Sandor grinned and agreed, and soon after they ended the phone call. This was perfect. He needed to see her anyways, to figure out where this blasted club was and to offer to pick her up. He was happy for her, too, setting things straight with Catelyn, slipping free of the lingering attachments to her childhood home. She had never ceased to impress him with her fortitude and ability to process through what had happened in Arizona, but this reluctance to leave her parents’ home, literally and figuratively, had started to worry him. He didn’t want her to stagnate. He wanted to see her free and confident, regretless, head high, wind in her hair. That hair…

He heaved himself up from the sofa and went to the bedroom. He changed into basketball shorts and running shoes, pulling a white t-shirt on over his head. Stopping by the bathroom to splash his face with water and put on some deodorant, he gave himself a brief, brutal appraisal in the mirror. Aviators would cover his eyes, but not the ugly side of him. It was a shame, really; he was honest with himself and knew that had Gregor not burned down the house and half of his face with it, he’d be a decent looking man. But that fate wasn’t his anymore. He took his hair down and retied it more securely to keep it out of his face on his run, and switched off the bathroom light.

 _Sansa deserves a handsome man_ , he thought as he transitioned from walk to run down the sidewalk, ignoring the stares and double takes. Maybe she’d find one eventually, when the fears ebbed. _But for now, she’s got me._

 

Sansa set her bag down after closing the door to her apartment and took a moment to catch her breath. It was up five flights of stairs and it had been a long time since she’d done any sort of cardio. Once she settled herself and shook out the demons, she’d have to take some jogs, maybe by the lake. Breathe in fresh air. Deciding to fully move into her new place was a start; she looked around with renewed interest and appreciation; it had large windows, one of them a bay, and it was flooded with midday light. _I need more light in my life,_ she thought, and gave the apartment a firm nod of approval before digging through her bag for her shampoo and conditioner, and heading into the bathroom.

Once showered, she set her iPod into its docking station and turned up the volume, humming along at times and belting out the lyrics at others as she figured out exactly how she wanted the front room arranged. There were still two sets of curtains she’d yet to hang, much less remove from their packaging, and she had an IKEA bookcase and sofa table to put together. Then there was the kitchen. She was no gourmand, but she did like to mess around with recipes and try new things, so she had plenty of knick knacks and small appliances to find homes for in the limited cabinet space.

A couple of hours later, the growling and grumbling of her stomach was no longer possible to ignore. Her fridge was a wasteland; not even a box of baking soda graced its empty shelves. Sansa sighed, and a sense of paralysis overcame her. Her little quip about agoraphobia wasn’t too far from the mark; while it wasn’t the outdoors she feared, it was the monsters lurking in it that made her gut clench and her breath catch in the back of her throat.

Still, she was an adult, and she was on her own again, and she needed to buck up and take care of herself. She could avoid the workforce, hiding behind her computer and sending articles to an editor she’d never met in person, but it wasn’t a job with the paycheck to justify ordering groceries online and getting it delivered to her doorstep.

There was a market two blocks away, so she wrote a hasty list and headed out. Apples, shallots, cherry tomatoes, butter lettuce, chicken breasts and a box of linguine. Lunch meat, parmesan and a couple bottles of red wine. Earl grey and Splenda, a dozen eggs and some French bread. That would tide her over for the next few days. She bought a reusable bag and toted her groceries home, smiling beneath the sun and the wide blue sky. A perfect spring day. Baskets of flowers hung from streetlights, and sidewalk gardens were swollen with so much lush color.

She had just about reached her apartment building when she spotted him, jogging towards her about a block away, his massive figure the perfect picture of strength. Passersby parted for him, and it heated something in her belly, something smug and prideful, because he was her friend, she knew him. _He’s beautiful,_ she thought, and Sansa realized, at that moment, that never before had she seen it so clearly, so nakedly. She stood beside the door to her building, staring at him openly as he approached her, this vision of masculinity, vitality, and, since she knew him, gentleness, protection, dry humor and calm.

 _Don’t stop, don’t stop, keep running to me. Sweep me up_ , she thought, and was shocked to know now, without a doubt, how she felt about Sandor. “Sweep me up,” she whispered, but he was already slowing to a walk 20 paces away, removing the ear buds and shutting off the iPod strapped to his bicep. A small, shimmery part of her fell into itself when she realized she’d not be pulled into those arms, would not feel the slick of his sweat, would not know the feel of his mouth on hers.

“Hey, you,” he said amiably when he was in front of her, not as out of breath as she’d be after a three mile run.

“Hey,” she said, and found that she was breathless. Sansa attempted self-recovery. “Fancy meeting you here.” she moved the grocery bag from right hand to left, and wordlessly he leaned in, taking the straps from her hand. _Gods, he’s going to kill me with this._

“I wanted a run and figured I’d swing this way and check on your place. Didn’t know you were moving in today.” Sandor glanced up at her building and nodded his head in its direction. “How’s it going up there?"

Sansa sighed. “It’s all right. I still have to put all that stupid IKEA crap together, but I was starving so I had to run out for some food.” She glanced down at the bag in his hand. “Not sure if you’re hungry yet, but a good run should inspire your appetite, if you’d like to have some lunch with me.” _Please. Please. Please._

“I’d like that, thanks. To pay you back, maybe I’ll even put together that IKEA crap of yours,” he said, waiting as she unlocked the door to her building. He held the door open, gave her a grin and said “After you, little bird.”

Sansa’s heart was in her mouth for five flights of stairs.

 

It was 6pm before Sansa’s apartment resembled a place where someone actually lived. Sandor was pleasantly weary after his run and four hours’ worth of building Swedish furniture and moving it half a dozen times around the front room. He’d remained brave when she asked to rearrange her bedroom and move her bed, and had banished all thoughts of what he’d to her _in_ that bed, and now they were eating pasta and salad and drinking wine on the floor of her living room, despite the sofa being cleared, finally, of all the IKEA and Target packaging and cellophane.

“I’m proud of you, you know. Moving in here.” he said, and Sandor blamed the cabernet in his glass for blurting that out without preamble. Sansa narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her wine glass.

“Oh yeah? You sound like my dad,” she said, rolling her eyes as she sipped. He felt like an idiot, but then she gave him a smile. He’d not made her mad.

“The last person I’d want to be to you is a parent,” he murmured into his glass before emptying it, setting it down on the coffee table. The terrifying feeling of exposure had him in its grasp, and he found he could not reach her eyes. He stared at his glass, fingers still pinching the stem.

“Same here,” she whispered, and that got his attention. He looked up, met those brilliant blue eyes, and was lost. Their gazes were locked for gods knew how long before she parted her lips, sighing slightly before catching the lower in her teeth. His mind was buzzing, maybe screaming, he had no fucking idea. He swallowed and coughed, cleared his throat and stood up. Sansa frowned, closed her mouth, stood with him.

“Do you er, I mean, I should go. It’s um, I have a thing, in the morning. Not that, I mean, are you okay here? Tonight?”

“Are you asking to spend the night with me, Sandor?” Sansa said, and her voice had a low huskiness to it that nearly brought on an erection, it was so full of promise, temptation, and unless he were wildly mistaken or drunk off of two glasses of wine, honest invitation. He gazed down at her, this gorgeous woman with her head tilted back to regard him at his full height, her hair a casual fall of red over her shoulder. That mouth again, parted, asking, enticing. Sandor had no breath left in his body.

"If spending the night with you ever comes up, I’ll want there to be no need of asking, little bird. Call me if you need anything,” he murmured, hating the widening space between them as he stepped backwards, twice, before turning to open her door.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven,” he said, and was granted the vision of Sansa, smiling at him, for him, before he closed the door quietly behind him, and then he was given the gift of hearing her sigh, a silken luxurious thing, as she locked the door .


	3. Chapter 3

Saturday Afternoon 1:30pm MST (4:30pm CST)

“Hey, prof- um, Petyr, it’s me, Sansa. I just wanted to call you and tell you again how grateful I am for all your help with the whole Joff situation. I took your advice to heart, and I stood up to him probably for the first time ever, and I feel really good about it. I just.. I am totally indebted to you. If there’s anything I can do to thank you, grade your papers for you or buy you like a thousand lattes, let me know. Seriously, thank you again.”

The voicemail was almost a year old, but Petyr Baelish would never delete it. Though he didn’t listen to it as often as he used to, those first couple of months after Sansa was whisked away to Illinois, he cherished it still. There were others, but the promise of favors returned in this message always aroused him. So eager to please, so easy to draw in. Truth be told, he was beginning to fantasize about her more than even Catelyn, and Cat had fueled Petyr’s sexual drive since he had been 12 years old. But now, more often than not, the Tully blue he saw with his mind’s eye was Sansa’s, and not Cat’s.

Finding a replacement had been difficult, especially someone with that singular auburn hair, the flawless complexion, the bluest of blue eyes; he’d had to give up on the hair color, but he found a willing enough plaything in Jeyne Poole, Sansa’s old friend, which was a sort of kink in and of itself. Luckily for him, Sansa’s pride and the loyalty to her politician father had meant his slip up had remained absolutely hush-hush, and Jeyne had no more an idea as to why Sansa left than the rest of the department. Still, it wasn’t the same; the thrill wasn’t there, and he found he had to rely on those voicemails more these days.

Petyr would not be so stupid as to call out Catelyn’s name, this go round.

He checked for a text from Jeyne and was rewarded with a confirmation that she could go hiking with him that afternoon up at Sabino Canyon. It was still early enough in the spring that an afternoon hike wouldn’t be too sweltering and dehydrating. Petyr texted back that he’d swing by to pick her up in 20 minutes. They’d have a casual dinner out afterwards, and then he’d have her back at his place. He quickly changed into appropriate clothing and grabbed a gallon of water out of his fridge before locking up the house and pulling his SUV out of the driveway. Five minutes into the ride, unable to help himself, Petyr pulled up the voicemail on his phone. Just one more listen, to get him revved up enough for Jeyne.

 

She’d shaved her legs, washed her hair and scrubbed her body from head to toe. That morning she’d ventured out for a mani/pedi, and was currently sitting at the little table inside her tiny dining area, feet up and crossed at the ankle in the opposite chair, with her still-damp hair wrapped up in a towel and her bathrobe cinched around her waist. She blew absently against the hot surface of her tea, the steam rushing away only to come furling back towards her.

Sandor would be here in one hour, and it seemed like both a lifetime and a heartbeat away. There wasn’t much left to do besides getting dressed and putting on her makeup. She already had her outfit picked out, a white button down shirt and dark skinny jeans, nude heels and a pale pink bubble necklace, and it was laid out on her bed in the same way she’d do every weeknight in high school. She’d pair it with a blazer. No, a leather jacket. No, the blazer. She was sure about the blazer. Tentatively, Sansa took a sip of tea. The temperature was perfect, and so she took a longer swallow to fortify herself. If she had Bailey’s, she might have drizzled some in her mug for a little liquid courage. This thought brought last night rushing back to her, with Sandor draining his wine glass, dropping a few little hints that he felt the same way for her as she did for him.

If only he’d stayed. Sansa wasn’t 100% sure, but she thought it would have been likely that she’d have slept with him, and the thought both excited and confused her. It had been since Tucson, since _him_ , and she always figured that the first thoughts of having sex again would be scary, uncomfortable, intimidating, unpleasant. But this was Sandor, the man her entire family trusted to protect them, the man who had slipped into her life unassumingly and had become, without a doubt, one of the closest people to her now. To tangle up in her bed with Sandor inspired no fear in her whatsoever, and it was that which confused her.

He used to scare her, in the beginning, with those scars she had once called hideous, and just the sheer size of him, looming in the periphery like a great beast. These things used to repel her so thoroughly that she couldn’t contain the repulsion, and he’d picked up on that, had hated her for it, she was sure. But now these things were simply Sandor, and she found herself as attracted to his scars and large frame as she was to his warm, serious grey eyes, the flex of his forearms when he didn’t see her looking, his Scottish burr and those rare barks of laughter. Scared, yes, once upon a time, but now she was here, getting hot and bothered with mere thoughts of him.

Sansa set her mug down and held her head in her hand, eyes closing. He rose up in her mind, jogging towards her, the sun reflected in the sweat on his arms and forehead. Dark-mirrored aviator sunglasses rendering him even more formidable. Jaw relaxed in the run yet still set with his limitless strength, and yes, the twist of flesh on the side of his face, the uneven hairline, the resigned sort of sorrow etched into his face that was present even when he smiled. They all gave her an ache deep in her belly because they were all him, and Sansa craved to tell him how he made her feel, to make him feel the same way.

“Gods, pull yourself together,” she muttered, rubbing her face and taking the towel off of her head, shaking out her hair. Finishing her tea, Sansa went to the bathroom to finish her hair and to put her makeup on, a nice cat eye and mascara, a smear of tinted lip gloss. She had planned on wearing red lipstick, but the chance of kissing Sandor inspired her to keep it simple.

She put on her chosen outfit, hated it, tried on three more before deciding the first one did indeed look the best. And while she could have sworn she had saved herself enough time to get dressed, she clearly had eaten up too many minutes changing her mind on the clothes. She hadn’t even wriggled back into her skinnies when there was a knock on the door. Sansa froze in the middle of buttoning her shirt and flicked her eyes up, staring at her own reflection in the standup mirror in the corner of her bedroom.

“Shit,” she said. “Shit shit shit.” She grabbed her jeans and when she had them pulled over her feet, she walk-hop-squirmed into them as she went to the door. “I’m coming! Hang on.” She buttoned her jeans, smoothed her hair down, took a deep breath, and opened the door. He was there in a charcoal V-neck sweater and jeans, his hair pulled back as always. “Hey,” she said, finding herself weak in the knees.

“Hey, yourself,” he said, and Sansa tingled all over as he looked her over. She wished she had gone with something a little more revealing, a little more enticing than a plain white blouse. She briefly entertained the thought of ripping her blouse open to let his eyes feast on her. “You look beautiful, but then you always do.”

“Likewise,” she said, feeling a flush creep up her chest and cheeks. She hoped he couldn’t tell and knew that he could; she had no tan of which to speak to help cover it up. He rolled his eyes at her compliment, unable to accept it, but he smiled at her.

“May I come in?”

“Oh gods, yes, of course, I’m sorry,” she said, opening the door further and standing swiftly to the side to let him in. She noticed for the first time that he had a bottle of champagne in his hand, the sides of the bottle glistening with condensation. “What’s that for?” she smiled, following him into the kitchen.

“Celebrating your courage,” he said, opening the fridge and setting the champagne in the door. He closed it and turned to her. “This is the first time you’ve really gone out since you came back, as you mentioned. And that deserves something out of the ordinary. But we don’t have to open it now. You really do look beautiful,” he said, and his voice was low, rough like a cat’s tongue. He folded his strong arms across his broad chest and leaned his hip against the counter.

“Thank you. So do you, you know,” she said. He tutted. They regarded one another for several moments, and Sansa marveled at the gradual change in his expression; his eyes were hot but kind at the same time, crinkling in the corners from his smile. “I um, I still need to finish getting ready before we go, you kinda caught me half dressed.” She gestured vaguely over her shoulder, pointing a finger towards her bedroom.

Sandors eyebrows lifted, and the unburned corner of his mouth curved down into a smirk. He pushed off of the counter and unfolded his arms, closing the short distance between them. He bowed his head, looking at her mouth, and for just a moment, his fingers brushed her hip. Sansa’s jaw dropped slightly. Thrumming heat pooled low within her, and a wave of nerves and want rushed up, crashing against her ribs, drowning her heart. His hand moved from that teasing light touch on her hip to slide to her lower back, as if they were dancing. Sansa closed her eyes as his mouth came close to her ear.

“Then I better wait for you in the other room. There’s no rush, we’ve all night.” He drew back and she opened her eyes to see a playful smile on his mouth that did nothing to temper the smolder in his eyes. His hand slipped away and he moved past her to go sit on the sofa. She turned to stare at him, incredulous, but he was the perfect image of calm collection.

He was _teasing_ her! Sansa narrowed her eyes and shook her head, heading back to her bedroom. _I should come back out in just my bra,_ she thought. _See how he freaking likes it._ She put the long dangling necklace on and, as an afterthought, undid another button on her blouse. It revealed a deeper sliver, a darker shadow of her cleavage than before, and the necklace dancing around in the same vicinity would draw his eye there. _Two can play this game,_ she thought as she slipped on her heels, shrugged into her blazer and gave herself two sprays of perfume.

“All set to go,” she said, taking her ID, a debit card and a tube of lip gloss from her purse, tucking all three in a back pocket. Sandor quickly got to his feet, revealing in his haste that for all that bravado on display in the kitchen, he was still nervous, and it made Sansa smile despite feeling like she hadn’t quite caught her breath since he walked in.

“Excellent. “ He followed her out the door and stood beside her as she locked up. He really was in the right business, she mused; he looked like an on-duty high level security guard, her own personal henchman. He just needed an earpiece with that clear curly cord disappearing behind his neck. Something stilled in her at that, and she frowned up at him, her keys dangling from the door knob as she scrutinized him. He’d laid it on thick in the kitchen, and she knew he wouldn’t lie to her, wouldn’t toy with her feelings or lead her on, but…

“Are you going out with me because you think it’s part of your job? I mean, I know you took the weekend off, but then you turn around and agree to go listen to blues with me. Do you even like blues?” She turned to face him, the door at her back.

Sandor turned slightly from her, dropped his head, and a thin lock of dark hair fell forward. He shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. And then he was in her space so thoroughly it was no longer hers, but a space on this earth that belonged to them both. He placed his hands on her body, their warm weight firm on her hips that were so close to his own. A breath hitched high and provocative in her throat as she craned her head all the way back to look up at him, placing her palms lightly on his chest. _Yes._

“I don’t care about blues. I care about you. I adore _you_ , Sansa, little bird, beautiful creature. I like you, have liked you, for far longer than you realize. If you asked me to visit the DMV with you, I’d go. If you wanted me to hold your purse while you shopped all day, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But regardless of whether I’m on duty or not, I’m always going to look out for you and keep you safe. That will never go away.”

At some point when he spoke, Sansa had let her hands skate up and over his shoulders so that her arms were wound around his neck. His sweater was soft and the smooth curve of muscle emanated a heat that gave her goose bumps. She lifted one hand, and brushed the fallen hank of hair back behind his ear. He butted his cheek against her hand like a cat, his eyes closing, and let loose a long-held and wavering sigh. Her fingertips brushed behind the shell of his ear, his hair softer than she’d have thought. She cupped his face, the pebbly snarl of scars soft beneath her hand. His eyes opened instantly, and the want and heat in his eyes was momentarily replaced with surprise, wariness. Discomfort.

“Sandor,” she whispered.

“Sansa.” He sounded hoarse, a man dying of an unquenched thirst.

She stretched up while simultaneously pulling him down, pulling him towards her, and their mouths were already parted when they pressed together for their first kiss. There was a beat or two before the air rushed out of her, and Sandor wrapped her up in his arms, slipping them beneath her blazer, bending his knees to even out their height before pinning her to his chest and straightening again, lifting her so that her toes only just grazed the floor, even in those heels. She whimpered into his mouth before seeking his tongue with her own, and the sensation sent stars exploding behind her eyelids.

Sandor briefly removed an arm from around her, freeing it from her jacket, and slid his hand up the center of her back, holding her up with just one forearm braced across her lower back, fingers delving into the hair at the nape of her neck. He broke the kiss to press more of them along her jaw, leaving her gasping. She felt greedy and unapologetic over it, for it felt so _good,_ being loved by him, loving him back. She rewound her arms around him and hitched a long leg up over his hipbone. Sandor groaned against her throat, his hands moving down her body to just beneath her ass, and with a fluid, combined effort, Sansa was lifted up into his arms, both legs winding around his waist, her ankles crossed.

“Keys,” he growled into her ear. “Fuck your blues.”

“Door,” she said, scattering a handful of kisses across his scars before settling in to nip his earlobe, to press her mouth in a line down the side of his neck, close to the hairline behind his ear. “And I don’t have the blues anymore, Sandor. _My_ Sandor.” He groaned again, fumbling with the key in the lock, and after a few clumsy movements that were punctuated with the nips Sansa was applying to his neck, he turned the knob, kicked open the door, and walked them both in before kicking it shut so hard the wall shook.

 

This was unreal to him, despite the warm weight of her in his arms, the excruciatingly fine feeling of her mile long legs wrapped around him like a ribbon round a birthday present. This was actually happening, it was not a dream or a fantasy. He kicked the door shut and leaned a moment against it, trying in vain to lock the door. She was kissing him in his arms, he was buzzing in the trap of her perfume, and how many times had he dreamed of this? He couldn’t keep his hands off of her long enough to find the bloody deadbolt, try as he might.

“Here, let me,” she breathed, one arm still hooked around his neck as she leaned sideways to latch the door. He took the moment to sweep her hair from her face, to run the tips of his fingers down her throat and just under the collar of her shirt, staring, memorizing, disbelieving this turn of events. “All better,” she said, and then she was kissing him again, all hot tongue and soft lip.

 _I am tasting Sansa_ ,he thought, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he closed them, arms squeezing her closer, if that were possible. He had hardened almost the moment they’d kissed, and it crossed his mind that having her in such a position now would surely alert her to the situation. He faltered in the kiss then as the tapping and snapping of his conscious broke him from his haze of lust. Sandor drew back, and the apartment was full of the sounds of their panting. He let his head fall back against the door, trying to master himself. Sansa stroked the side of his face, fingernails brushing through his hair and back behind his ear again.

“What’s wrong, what happened? Are you all right? Do you need me to get down?”

“No, but just, just wait half a moment. Are you… Are _you_ all right? I don’t want to, er, I don’t want to rush you, or hurt you.” His arms burned from the intensity of his grip on her, and suddenly he felt like a possessive monster, a brute. He remembered the Sansa from half a year ago, trembling and terrified of everything, and he felt ashamed. He swallowed hard, wondering if he’d pushed her into this, and opened his eyes to gaze at her, half afraid of what he might see.

“No, no, no. Don’t you dare,” she breathed, and then she was unlocking her ankles from around him, sliding down a bit before he reluctantly loosened his grip on the backs of her thighs, letting her regain her footing in front of him. She cupped both sides of his face in her hands and he flinched out of habit. Kissed him again, soundly. “I get to want you, Sandor. I get to want this, don’t you dare take it away from me. I’ve—I want this, and with you, only with you. Please.”

He stared down at her, his brow knit together. How was this possible, that Sansa was standing here, saying please to him, asking him to be with her, asking him to just dive right into the rest of the evening? He lifted a hand and brushed the hair back over her shoulder. She turned her head, lighting quick, to press a kiss the center of his palm. It was his turn now to hold her face in his hands, and he ran his thumb along her lower lip as she tipped her head back, smiling beneath the weight of his thumb.

He kissed her. He kissed her, and he kissed her as this time she pressed him against the door. Sandor gently slipped his hands beneath the lapels of her blazer, pushing it off of her shoulders and down her arms, letting it fall to the floor behind her. Sansa smiled against his mouth and he followed suit, a chuckle rumbling up from inside him. She kicked out of her heels and dropped a few inches, and he hunkered down to make up for it, just to keep those kisses coming.

Her hands were feather light and hungry all at once, and he felt alive for the first time in a long, long while as they pushed up under his sweater, flanking his spine as they slid up to his shoulders, giving him chills, taking the sweater with them. And then he was shirtless, and Sansa Stark was tossing his sweater to the floor. He raised his eyebrows, and she grinned at him, a little wolf whose appetite suddenly seemed to perfectly match his own. He sent a fingertip along her collarbone, letting it drop slowly before hitting the first done button of her shirt, her necklace chinkling with the motion. He cleared his throat and flicked his eyes up to her, ignoring the rise and fall of her chest, for the time being.

“D’you, er, do you want to, you know, talk a bit first? I mean, or at all.” He felt like a big clumsy fool, but there it was. He was a fool for her, and he’d play the fool forever so long as he knew she was all right. Sansa threw her head back and laughed before slipping her index fingers into the front two belt loops of his jeans. She gave him a tug, stepping backwards towards, Sandor realized with a groan, her bedroom.

“No, Sandor, I do not want to talk.”

“Sansa,” he sighed.

“ _Your_ Sansa,” she corrected firmly, and then her calves were bumping against her bed.

“My Sansa,” whispered Sandor, as their mouths met again, as she was up in his arms again. And then they were somehow on her bed, in her bed, sheets a twist and tangle at his calves, her nails at his back, naked legs around him, and he was consumed by her, happily so, for this was a fire he’d gladly walk into, as often as she’d let him. Her hair was an auburn fan on the pillow and his own, a raven to her phoenix, had long ago slipped its binding and now hung down on either side of his face until she raked it back to kiss his scars and lick into his mouth. She breathed his name in his ear, moaned it for the room to hear, and he called for her, over and over, his little bird, his wild wolf. And they were together, wholly, and he’d not be parted from her anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell if Sandor is OOC this chapter with all the smile/chuckle/laugh stuff.
> 
> If you guys think so, let me know, I might edit some out and insert more "he said roughly" type stuff, lol.

Sunday Morning 12:05am

 

“I’m hungry,” Sansa said, her naked back against Sandor’s chest, curved they were in her bed as two spoons in a drawer. He drew her closer with the arm draped over her ribs, his open palm pressed flat to the valley between her breasts. She inhaled, smiling at the feel of his body connecting to hers. They’d been at each other for hours, and her body throbbed with a rich soreness, but it didn’t stop her heart from leaping at every reminder that he was here, in her bed, wrapped around her like a cloak.

“I’m not surprised,” he chuckled, a huff of breath against her shoulder. “Though I am surprised sleep hasn’t taken hold of you yet.” They had been lying together for some time now, the sheet pulled up to their waists, the room still thick and heavy with love, the rabbit-quick thudding of pulses slowing, breathing regulating, eyes sliding closed.

“I can’t sleep when I’m hungry,” she said, pulling his hand from her chest so she could kiss it, hold it close under her chin. She bent her body around it, slightly, as if that hand were some rare treasure to keep safe. His bicep beneath her head bulged, tightened as he crooked his elbow to reach her hair with the fingers of that hand, let it slip between forefinger and thumb. She had learned he was simply unable to keep his hands out of her hair, and that discovery was precious to her.

“I find,” he confessed, “that I can’t sleep with you in my arms,” and she twisted around to lie on her back so she could look at him, her knees bent as she draped her legs over his hip. It was his turn to curl his body in around her, still on his side. The lights from the living room shone a cocoon of faint warmth over them, casting shadows and plays of light on his shoulder and arm, a few inches of his torso before the sheets stole him from her view. He moved his arm from beneath her and propped his head up, gazing down at her. She pushed black hair from his eyes, to better see all the happiness there in the usually somber gray.

“I’m going to assume that’s related to passionate things and not to your arm falling asleep and getting all prickly,” she said, and he laughed, one of those rare barks, purely genuine with nothing held back.

“Aye,” he said, kissing her. “Passionate things, indeed.”

“I’m still hungry,” she said when the kiss broke. “Aren’t you?”

“I could eat,” he said. “And I am rather thirsty, come to think of it. One thirst slaked, only to create another,” and Sansa’s breath hitched as he traced an imaginary line from her throat, down the center of her body to her belly, his fingertip skating off down her thigh. He kissed her again. “Let me get something for you,” he said, making a move to get up.

“No, no,” she said, sliding sideways out of the delightful snare of him, of his kisses and his touches. “Don’t get up. I think my heart would break if you left my bed right now.”

“Woman, you’ll be the death of me,” he groaned, rolling onto his back, one arm folded beneath his head as he watched her stand up, wrap her gray jersey bathrobe around her. She watched him watching her, and gave him a devious smirk.

“Not tonight, I won’t,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Save your strength, Mr. Clegane. I know you’re older than me, and I’d hate for you to tire out before I’m done with you.” She gave him a wicked grin. He shot straight up in bed, his expression incredulous. She waltzed out of the room.

“Oh ho! The wolf has sharp teeth,” he called out after her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him flop back to the mattress, elbows in the air as he covered his eyes with his palms, chuckling to the ceiling.

Once in the kitchen , Sansa spun around in a circle, her face breaking into the widest smile she owned. She took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, as silently as she could so he’d not know. _Sandorsandorsandor_ she thought, biting her lip to keep herself from squealing or laughing or shouting her thanks to the seven. He was _here_ and he was _hers_ , and they both knew it.

She gazed unseeing into her fridge, momentarily forgetting why in hells she was even in there when her eyes fell on the champagne. It only took a second’s hesitation before she grabbed the bottle. Celebration, indeed. She grabbed two small water glasses and set them on the counter, and then quickly cut up a pair of apples, ripped a few hunks off of the baguette and sliced some of the parmesan. She tried arranging it on the cutting board as prettily as she could, and wished she had a candle. Then she remembered they were eating in bed, and then the source of his scars, and discarded that idle wish.

Sansa walked back into the bedroom and Sandor laughed to see her, with a glass in each pocket of her bathrobe, the champagne tucked awkwardly in the crook of her right elbow while she carefully balanced the cutting board on her left forearm, using her right hand to steady it.

“Welcome to Chez Stark,” she purred in an exaggerated French accent.

“I think I got that welcome a few hours ago,” he grinned, and she scoffed at him, feigning shock to her sensibilities. He sat up, patting the edge of the bed on his side. She came to him and he removed each of the glasses from her pocket, setting them on the nightstand, before relieving her of the cutting board. Sansa wordlessly handed him the bottle of champagne and grinned before crawling over his legs to sit in the center of the bed. He pressed the cold bottle to her bare calf as she traveled to her spot, and she shrieked, much to his delight.

“Oh just open it already,” she said, leaning back against the wall and out of range as he unwrapped the foil. He did as she commanded, easing the cork out with a loud _POP_ that made her laugh. He poured them each a glass, setting the bottle on the table and turning towards her.

“To the best night of my life,” he said in all seriousness, gazing at her intently. Heat spread throughout her, and she smiled softly, thinking _Y_ _es, this is love, this is me loving him._

“To the best man in mine,” she murmured, and clinked her glass against his. They sipped together, Sansa taking two swallows of the ticklish, delicious stuff, thinking how perfectly the taste matched the feeling of this entire evening. Sandor drained the contents of his small glass; she picked up an apple slice and a piece of cheese, holding them together as she took a bite of the combination. She grinned around her mouthful.

“How is it,” he said slowly, deliberately, as he tore off a piece of bread, pairing it with the cheese as well. “That I can be crazy for you almost the entire time I know you, never thinking anything would ever come of it, and now I’m naked in your bed, drinking champagne? How is this even possible for a brute like me?” He popped the food in his mouth and shook his head slowly at her, the picture of disbelief.

 “You’re no brute. You’d never hurt me. I’ve known brutes, so I will be the judge of that,” she said, eyes steady on him, unwavering and unafraid. Sandor flinched, and she felt bad for him, but she had to make him understand the truth of devils in this world, that he was not one of them, that he was a gift to her.

“Sansa, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“No, please, don’t apologize,” she said, taking another emboldening swallow of champagne before handing him the glass to set it down. He mimicked her, drinking and setting his glass down with hers. She slipped her hand into his. “Sandor, how can I… How can I make you understand? We made love all night, for gods’ sake, what more can I say or do to make you realize how much you mean to me? I… There is only one man out there who could make me feel… Who _does_ make me feel so… so safe. So _me._ I found myself again, because of you. So, no, you’re no brute. You’re the man who saved me from them.”

“My brave girl,” he said softly, pulling her to him with an arm across her shoulders. He pressed his mouth hard against her forehead before drawing back. “Sansa, you saved yourself. You did all of that yourself, not I. I hoped, and I prayed to the seven, even, that you’d find your footing again. But it was all you, little bird.”

“Then you protected me until it was safe to do so,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder as she reached for another apple slice.

“I’ll accept that,” he chuckled, “Seeing as how bloody stubborn you are.” They dined on the remainder of bread, apples and cheese, and finished off the champagne before Sandor got up, naked as the day he was born, to fetch clean glasses of water and deposit the cutting board in the sink. She feasted her eyes on him in all his glory, shameless as her gaze wandered wherever she wanted it to. Perhaps she understood, after all, how Sandor could be so disbelieving; she herself couldn't quite wrap her head around this luck, this fate, this bliss.

When he returned, he found her bathrobe on the floor; Sandor smiled and lifted his eyes to her, eased back in bed and back in her arms. She pulled him back to her, hungrily, hands and mouth questing, seeking, wanting so badly to give. She moaned when he fisted her hair at the nape of her neck, his other arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her over him until she straddled him. Sansa went willingly, breasts pressed flush to his chest as they regarded each other, faces mere inches apart. He ran lazy fingers up and down her spine, tracing circles against her shoulder blades, always returning them to the wild mess of her hair. They took their time, far less rushed than they had been previously, though mutual need had reared up once more.

“So,” he rumbled as she sat up, palms flat against his chest, hips ready to move. “This is what it feels like outside of the friendzone, huh?”

Sansa laughed.

 

“No, I appreciate you letting me know. Better she hears it from us than the news, or from someone who doesn’t know any better,” Ned said, his head in one hand as he held the phone in the other. “And Jory, please tell me you’re not going to be at the office all day. Your wife will kill me.” He chuckled, told his secretary he’d check in later, and hung up.

Ned sighed, unsure of how to feel about this new information. He pushed himself wearily from his desk, vowing as he did every Sunday that he’d take the day, finally, to clean his desk, and went off in search of Cat.

She was in the kitchen’s bright little breakfast nook, gazing out the window into the backyard, absentmindedly stirring her coffee with a spoon. He smiled, bent down to kiss her shoulder. She tilted her head against his and gave him a playful look.

“You’re out of your office already? It’s not even 8am! I should wake the boys so they can witness this spectacular event,” she teased. He sat down just as she rose, rewrapping her shawl around her shoulders, and went to get him a cup of coffee. He watched her, mother of his children, love of his life, and wondered what would have become of her, had that ugly little man gotten his hands on her. He hated himself that he hadn’t saved his daughter the way he’d saved his Cat.

He thanked her for the coffee and declined her offer of breakfast. “Please, Catelyn, sit down. I uh… Hm. Jory called, just now, with news from Arizona.”

His wife froze, eyes hard and wide and fearful as she stared at him. “What has he done now?” Her voice dripped with loathing.

Ned explained it, watching a flurry of emotions overtake her expression, all different, all scattered. They sat in silence for several minutes.

“We’ll have to tell her,” she said finally, taking a deep breath and a long sip of coffee. “In person, I think.” Ned nodded.

“I was thinking we could ask her over for dinner maybe. Or lunch, if you want to get it out of the way sooner,” he said, his hand sliding across the table to clasp hers. She squeezed back.

“We need to tell the whole family, I think they need to hear it too. That way we’ll all be here for her, as support. I’ll call Robb in a couple of hours; it’s far too early up in Maine. But I leave Arya and Jon to you, those wild things never behave for me.” Ned chuckled at that; his youngest daughter and nephew listened to the four winds more than any parental figure.

“Well, I’ll call Jon then, and do my best to get Arya over here, but there’s no telling with her.” Cat snorted, and made even that seem ladylike. “Anyways, don’t call Sansa for a while yet, she and Sandor were out listening to blues, and you know how late those things can go.”

“Oh, Ned, we should tell Sandor too. He’s like family and he’s been so good protecting Sansa. He’d want to know.”

“I’ll text him. I hope they had fun last night. I know Sansa was looking forward to an evening out.”

 

Sandor inhaled deeply, greedily, as he scrubbed his scalp, filling his lungs with the smell of her shampoo. He’d never have guessed that the source of such an intoxicating aroma was some concoction labeled as sea kelp. Hot water beat down on the middle of his back, intensifying the lingering sting from the marks Sansa’s nails had left, and he had to crouch slightly to wash out the shampoo. He quickly washed the rest of him, turned off the shower and toweled off.

It was past noon, and they’d only just gotten up, a wonderful tangle of arms and legs, burrowed deep under sheets and, after the sweat dried from their final go, - _love making, she’d called it,_ he thought with a grin - a heap of blankets. He was beside himself with joy, dizzy and depleted from her, impossibly wound up in her.

How in seven hells was he supposed to come back to earth after this? He had work to do _oh gods, for her father, I’ll be facing Ned Stark tomorrow after sleeping with his daughter_. Sandor swiped his hand through the fog on the bathroom mirror, staring himself down. He tried to see himself as Sansa did, all that love and want in her eyes whenever she looked at him, but all he saw was how he’d look to her father: a 37 year old man with half a face and a rough enough history to make him _very_ good at his job. Fuck.  

She was just finishing making the bed when he emerged from the bathroom wearing last night’s boxers and jeans. She was wearing a long black sleeveless dress without a bra, her nearly-dry hair braided on the side, and as she leaned over the bed to smooth out the duvet, a strap slipped off her shoulder, and he had to grit his teeth. He’d need a nap today as it was; getting riled up again would surely leave him comatose.

“Do you have a hair tie? I lost mine at some point last night,” he said, combing his damp hair back from his face with his fingers. She turned, all smiles, and he knew it would take him a while to get used to being looked at that way. He’d been with women before, sure, but they had fucked him for the novelty, or the bad boy aura, and never for who he truly was. And none of them, even the ones who had hung around for a few dates, had ever given him looks full of love.

“I found yours in the bed,” she said, lifting her hand to display the tie around her wrist like a bracelet. She snapped it lightly. “Been using it to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“You and me both, woman,” he said gruffly, taking her wrist in his hand, sliding the tie off. As he tied his hair back in its usual knot on the back of his head, she took advantage of the moment and hugged him, pressing a warm kiss to his bare chest. “I’m a defenseless man, how dare you,” he said, and she laughed.

She made them eggs and toast, finishing off the rest of the baguette, and she had tea while he drank water. They chatted idly, as they always had, but it was different, so blessedly different than it had ever been, with her foot in his lap, his forearm draped across her shin, the secretive smile they seemed to share, full of last night’s memories.

“So, my Sansa, just what are we going to tell your family?” he said bluntly, taking a final bite of eggs. “These were delicious, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, leaning back in her chair, regarding him pensively over her mug of tea. “And, you know, I don’t know what we’re going to say. I’m 28, or as some rotten man reminded me, nearly 30,” she said archly and he mustered up the grace to look apologetic. “If anyone asks, I’ll say we’re together now.”

“And we are together now, aren’t we,” he smiled, and for once that wrinkle of scar by his mouth was absolutely nothing.

“Yes we are, my Sandor,” she said, slipping her other foot into his lap. He slid his hand up under her dress, squeezed her inner thigh, making her gasp. He was going in for a tickle when his cell phone buzzed with a text message. Moments later, her phone rang. They shrugged at each other as she pulled her feet from his lap and got up to answer the call in her bedroom. Sandor fished his phone from his back pocket – _a miracle it’s still in there_ \-  and pulled up his messages.

  * Ned Stark: Swing by the house sometime this afternoon, stay for dinner if you can. Have news re: Arizona. Rickon took Sansa’s car yesterday, can you drive her? Thx



Sandor frowned, and suddenly found that the eggs weren’t settling as well as they had before the text. He quickly shot back a “Sure” and a “No problem” and glanced over his shoulder towards her bedroom. The text and the call had to be related, and the thought of Sansa’s reaction agitated him. He’d not follow her in and crowd her, so instead he sat and finished his water, trying in vain for patience.

When she finally emerged, the long dress was gone. She was in jeans and a baseball t-shirt, a pair of sunglasses perched on her head. She handed him his sweater and gave him an easy smile. “Hey. That was my mom. She invited me over for dinner, told me to invite you too if you wanted. Do you um, do you want to? I know you have to work tomorrow and I’ve totally eaten up your entire weekend, so you know, if you can’t…”

“Of course I’ll go. I just need to swing by my place to change, and then we’ll go. But you could never eat up enough of my time to sate me, lass.”

She grinned and pointed at him as she walked backwards into her kitchen. “I have been _dying_ to have you call me “lass,” you have no idea.” She grabbed a bottle of wine to take to her parents’ and grabbed her purse. “I’m ready when you are.”

Sandor stood and pulled the sweater on over his head, and went to her, stilling her. She gazed up at him questioningly, happily, so sweetly true. He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut a moment, not knowing if Ned would want him to warn her, but unable to keep himself from it.

“I need to tell you something.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this story is wrapping up. I have an epilogue in mind for the next and final chapter, but I have fallen in love with everyone in this story, and I think I'm definitely going to have to revisit this universe again. I'm sort of crushing hard on Rickon of all people lol.
> 
> ALSO: Trigger warning for Sansa's last POV towards the end. We find out what Petyr did.

Sunday afternoon 4:38pm

 

She hadn’t spent a lot of time at Sandor’s apartment, but she loved it each time she came over. It was so utterly him, almost military in its neatness and simplicity, but bedecked with surprising touches of a personality that had taken him months to slowly reveal to her; a black and white photograph of a tenement building in New York from the ‘20s; a collection of basalt rocks on a shelf that he said were supposed to help your chi; a framed coat of arms, three black dogs on a shield of yellow, on the wall of his living room; and most dear to him, an antique set of silver, the only thing his mother had ordered him to grab from the house when his brother had burned it down, taking Sandor’s entire family and half his face in the flames. She was poking around in the polished wood box now as he changed clothes, admiring the delicate little spoons, the dainty tines of the salad forks, the graceful curve of a gravy ladle.

Sansa felt an odd sort of calm after he had told her the real reason behind her parents’ summons was to do with Petyr. She had a feeling her relative ease had partly to do with Sandor, and she was grateful for his presence, his borrowed strength, his love. But there was also a newfound resilience growing inside her, a tough nut of fortitude in her heart that had come from nothing over the past months, a grit that she knew came from her, and her alone. She felt that if she came face to face with her rapist, she could knock him down with just a look, she was that assured of herself now.

Sandor padded down the hall from his bedroom in his bare feet, stopping a moment to check in on her before going to the bathroom. “How’s tricks, woman?”

“Good,” she said, setting the ladle back in its velvet-lined space before sliding shut the little drawer. “Take your time, there’s no rush.” He nodded, gave her a grin, disappeared into the little bathroom with the vintage black and white tiles she loved so much.

She took a seat at his desk, contemplating checking her email on his laptop, when her gaze fell on a little notepad, like the ones hotel rooms offered. Her name was written there, three times, in his frank and straightforward handwriting, all capitals, all edges. _Sansasansasansa._ Her breath caught in her throat, and she traced the letters with her finger, reverentially. Confidence and delight and _love_ bloomed in her heart.

He left the bathroom and grabbed a pair of boots, bringing them and a pair of socks into the living room, sitting down on his couch to put them on. Sansa stood up and walked to him, standing in front of his coffee table, gazing down at the crown of his head as he laced up his boots, pulled the cuffs of his jeans down over them.

“I am in love with you,” she said, bold as brass. Sandor stilled his movement immediately, taking his time to lift his head and his gaze. No smile, no grin, all seriousness, but softness as well.

“I have been in love with you for a while,” he admitted, and she stepped around the coffee table, folding herself in his lap, sitting astride his thighs. She wrapped him up in her arms and kissed him as he slid his hands up the sides of her waist, to her shoulders, her hair. He inhaled deeply and moaned into her mouth and she sighed all her love into him. They remained there, locked into each other, for several  minutes, and Sansa felt the warm sun beat down on them through the window behind his couch, as if the gods were smiling.

“We should go,” he said, moving his mouth to her earlobe, his breath gusting against her ear, giving her goose bumps and making her shiver. “Or else I’ll never want to move from this sofa again.”

“Too late for me,” she replied. “I’m going to move into your couch.” He chuckled, a merry, rumbling thing from him, and he hoisted her out of his lap, depositing her on the cushion beside him.

“Let’s face the music,” he said, holding his hand out as he stood. He pulled her up and against him, searching her eyes for anything amiss.

“I’ll be fine,” she said quietly. “I promise. I’ll have you there with me.”

 

“I say it every day, mom, ‘Not today,’” said Rickon, who pushed the sliding glass door open with a rough shove, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

“You say that baloney more to me than you do to the god of death, young man,” said Catelyn, hard on his heels as they both trotted down the stone steps to the flagstone patio. “Besides, with a habit like that, you’ll being saying ‘someday soon’ before you know it.”

“Oh ha-ha, very funny. Arya, toss me your lighter.”

Sandor exchanged a glance with Sansa, whose eyebrows were raised in an “Oh shit” expression. Catelyn and her youngest brother had been having this war for three years, ever since he was caught smoking in high school.

He’d parked in the driveway as he usually did, but Arya and Gendry’s lively banter out back had brought them around the house, and there on two chaise lounges the younger couple were splayed, both smoking irreverently beside the pool. Rickon was a storm cloud as Arya tossed him a lighter, sitting down with gusto on the lounger next to her. Arya caught sight of them and rolled her eyes at them just as Cat rounded on her, mistaking the gesture as one aimed at her.

“You think you’re a tough shit for egging on your brother, don’t you?” Catelyn snapped, and Gendry’s eyes nearly bugged out of his skull as he slowly turned to see Arya’s reaction. Her mouth hung open.

“Calm down, woman, it’s just a cigarette,” muttered Rickon, rubbing a hand through the wild thicket of his hair.

“Don’t you call me that!” Catelyn said, marching back up the steps, they all heard her shout for Ned before she slid the glass door closed.

Sandor and Sansa looked at each other. She shrugged and smirked. “I don’t know, I like it when _you_ call me woman.” He’d not admit it to a soul, but her words made his heart swell with pride. She smiled.

“Hey guys,” Sansa said, taking Sandor by the hand, lacing her fingers in his. _Here we go,_ he thought, gritting his teeth in anticipation of their reactions, especially Arya’s. “I see you’re helping mom with her blood pressure, Rickon.”

“Same story, different day,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke with gusto. Rickon looked up, his eyes landing briefly on their clasped hands before looking to Sansa and finally him. “What’s up, Sandor?”

“Nothing, mate,” he replied. Bloody hells, his hand was sweating. He cleared his throat and guided Sansa towards the door, but before they could escape, Arya piped up with a “Well, well, well, what _do_ we have here?” Sandor scowled, ready for the youngest Stark daughter to give him all manner of grief. Sansa broke free from his hand and turned on the steps, and he felt momentarily abandoned before she returned her hand to his once he turned as well.

“What are you talking about, Arry?” She smiled sweetly, expression a pinnacle of innocence.

“I see that that finally happened, huh?” she said, gesturing to their hands. “It’s about godsdamn time, to be honest, what with him following you around like a big puppy dog this whole time.” Gendry gave Sandor an apologetic look, nudging Arya’s knee with his foot. “What? What’d I say?”

To his surprise, Sansa was gazing up at him fondly. “I always wanted a puppy,” she grinned. He leaned in to her and kissed her temple, earning them a shriek and a whoop from Arya.

“I’ll be your dog, lass,” he murmured, and she squeezed his hand.

Rickon put his cigarette out in an empty terra cotta pot and came towards them. For a brief moment, Sandor wondered if Rickon would swing a punch at him; he had always been a bit wild, and was not known for consistency of personality. Instead, Rickon grasped Sandor’s free hand in a hand shake and gave him a half-hug.

“Personally, I’m glad,” he said gruffly. “I know you’d kick the shit out of anyone who hurt my sister.” Rickon gave Sansa a nod and then brushed past them to go back inside. Sandor and Sansa followed him, closing the door as Arya told Gendry she’d do her own shit-kicking, thank you very much.

 

“Mom, you guys can just cut to the chase, I know we’re all here because of Petyr,” Sansa said as they all sat down to dinner. Everyone froze, Bran with his mouth hanging open and Gendry, her father and Sandor frozen in place halfway into their chairs. Rickon snorted with laughter.

“This is not funny, Rickon,” Cat sighed as Ned simultaneously said “Listen to your mother” in his weary way.  Everyone sat down and placed napkins on their laps, but that was it as far as it went, pretending this was a normal dinner.

“Sansa,” her father said as he gently laid a hand over hers; she was sitting to the left of his chair at the head of the table, and Sandor was beside her, and he was tracing circles and random patterns on her thigh beneath the table, his administrations blocked from view thanks to the tablecloth.

“Dad, I’m fine. Honestly, I’m ok. Ever since I talked with mom,” she gave her mother a warm glance; Cat smiled faintly, eyes full of sorrow. “I’ve just felt a weight lifted off me. I mean, I’ve been staying at my apartment all weekend with no issues.  I’m ok, I can handle this. So, what’s he done now?”

Her siblings were uncharacteristically quiet, even Arya sat silently with her eyes locked on their father as he and their mother exchanged a heavy look.

“Jory called me earlier from the office,” Ned said, his voice soft. “Apparently Petyr was in a car accident, they think from texting or looking at his phone. He’s uh, well, he died on the way to the hospital, Sansa.”

Sandor’s hand stilled on her leg, and Sansa felt the weight of seven pairs of eyes on her. She gazed around at them all, unsure of how she felt. Sandor leaned into her, his arm draped over the back of her chair

“Little bird, are you all right?” he murmured, close to her ear. She nodded once, smiling weakly at him, and took a deep breath. A thousand emotions swirled inside her, but as they all eventually settled, an incredible calm took her over, and one overwhelming feeling remained: relief.

“Well, good,” she said lightly, picking up her fork. “I hope he burns in each of the seven hells, and if I could I would resurrect him just so he could die again.”

“’Atta girl,” Arya grinned at her from across the table. Sansa bit her lip and grinned back, feeling a buzz-like rush from her flippant comment. “Now we can talk about how Sansa and Sandor are banging,” her rotten sister said, nonchalantly taking a sip of her wine.

 

The rest of the dinner went about how the Stark family dinners typically did: a slew of conversation, laughter, a handful of arguments, namely with that little shit Arya at the helm. 26 years old and she was as pesky as a fucking kid. Sandor had wanted to crawl under a rock when she pulled that stunt at dinner, and it was all he could do to not break out into nervous laughter as prim Catelyn looked at him with wide eyes. Ned was worse, though; the man had simply cleared his throat and asked for the roasted potatoes. Sandor knew this man well; his time would come.

It came after dinner when Sansa kissed him boldly on the lips before taking a stack of dishes with her, following her mother into the kitchen.

“I have a rather rare bourbon I’ve been meaning to try, Sandor,” Ned said evenly, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you’d join me out back for a glass.”

“Sure,” he replied, as nervous as a teenager, though he felt he did a pretty good job hiding it. Rickon slunk into his father’s office in an attempt to swipe a couple of fingers of the whiskey, but Ned pinned him with a solitary glare, and Rickon went from whence he came. Ned rolled his eyes in good humor and led them out to the pool deck. The pool lights gave the area an ethereal, otherworldly glow but it did nothing to stave off his anxiety. Would Ned fire him? He sincerely hoped not; his feelings for Sansa aside, Sandor had come to love the Stark family, even Arya, and the thought that he could be cast out soured his stomach.

“So,” said his boss in a conversational tone, swirling his snifter before taking a sip. “You and Sansa, huh?”

“Aye,” he said, nodding his head. Never in his life had he ever called a man “sir,” boss or not, but now that he was sitting across from Ned as his daughter’s boyfriend and not just his employee, he very nearly uttered the word. “It’s not as crass as Arya made it out to be, Ned. It’s not some casual thing, I do happen to care for Sansa, very much so.” Sandor swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey, hoping it would put him at ease.

Ned listened, nodding his head. “I figured Arya was trying to shock rather than inform,” he said dryly. “Sansa’s an adult, so I don’t want you thinking I’m here to tell you to leave her alone. She is more than capable of making her own choices in life. But I do want you to know that I support this particular choice. To put it bluntly, I approve. I know you protect her, and now I know you do it for a far better reason than your paycheck.”

“And uh, will I continue to receive those?” Sandor couldn’t believe his fortune. He had Sansa, he had her father’s approval, and he hoped against all hope that he’d not be collecting unemployment come Monday.

Ned laughed, drinking the rest of his whiskey and standing. “Yes, of course. Bronn’s been more than adequate filling in for you, but that man’s wit is going to get him in trouble one day.”

 

“You’re really all right?” Sandor asked her, slipping up behind her unawares as she washed wine glasses. Her mother smiled enigmatically, draped her dish towel over Sandor’s shoulder and drifted from the room.  Sansa smiled and chuckled as he wound his arms around her. He hunched down, resting his chin on her shoulder, and she tipped her head against his.

“I really am, I promise. I don’t quite understand how to feel anything else but relief and happiness over it, to be honest. He can’t hurt anyone anymore,” she said. Sansa squeezed his arms before returning to her task, and Sandor took the towel from his shoulder and picked up a glass to dry it.

“I wish I could have been the one to kill him,” Sandor said, and she knew he was speaking truthfully.

“I know. I kind of wish I could have too.”

 

Later they lay spooned up on his sofa, half asleep and in near darkness as they watched some crappy movie on TV, Sandor lazily combing his fingers through her hair.  She knew it was important to spend more nights by herself in her own place, but this love was too new and too precious, and so she was barefoot and in an old button down shirt of his, her bare legs tangled with his jeans-clad ones.

“I still cannot believe I’ve got you in my arms,” he murmured, kissing the crown of her head.  Sansa stilled, frowning, before pulling his hand in for a kiss.

“When Joff and I were dating,” she said, “it started out wonderfully, but before long the emotional abuse came, and then the physical.” Her voice was low, and he stopped playing with her hair to listen. “Petyr was my mother’s friend, and it felt sort of like an extension of my family, so I turned to him for advice. He and I started spending more and more time together, especially after  I got the courage to dump Joff.” She took a deep breath and he pulled her tight against him, a wordless gesture of support.

“Anyways,” she continued, “Petyr had a lot of words for me, words like beautiful and unique and intelligent. All these sweet, soft words that were so different from Joff’s. I started thinking of him not as an extension of my family, anymore, but as a love interest. I was foolish. Looking back now, I know he was just grooming me, especially knowing how he felt about my mother, but back then it just felt so good to be adored. We um, um…”

“Sansa, you don’t have to go on,” he whispered.

“Yes, I do. I need to get this out. He’s dead now, and I don’t want to be the only person on earth carrying this. I want to get rid of it. We were having sex when he called me by my mother’s name,” she said, and it was hard to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“Son of a bitch,” Sandor said in a voice low and deadly.

“Yes. He called me my mother’s name, this man who I thought loved _me_ , and was crazy about _me_ , when really I was just a Cat-shaped sex toy.” She had a sneer to her mouth now, try as she might to keep it away. “That was bad enough, but when I tried to stop after he said that, he wouldn’t let me. He kept at me, pinning me down.” She took a deep breath. “He raped me all night, calling me her name.”

If a pin dropped, they’d have clapped their hands over their ears, it would have been that deafening in the silence that followed Sansa’s confession. Sandor exhaled a long, slow breath.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa,” he said. “If I could do anything to take that away, I would. I would die to keep you from experiencing that.”

“You _have_ helped to take it away. That’s the whole reason I told you.” She twisted in his arms until they were chest to chest, her face cloaked in shadow, his illuminated from the light of the television. “You are the man who has been the kindest to me, family aside, in all my life. You’re wonderful, you’re beautiful.”

“Sansa, don’t--”

“Don’t what, tell you the truth?” She stroked the burned side of his face. “You’ve got to hear me out, Sandor. These are beautiful to me, because they’re you. I wish I could have kept you from these as well, but since I can’t, I can love them. “

“Then,” he said slowly, and Sansa could see the desire to fight her over this, but she could also see an attempt at understanding her words. “Then I will just love you as best as I can. I will love you, all of you, and all your scars in here,” he said, tapping a finger to her sternum.

“It’s all I ask,” she said happily, and he brushed open the too-huge shirt she wore by simply spanning the fingers on his large hand, and kissed her over her heart.

 

 

 

 


	6. Epilogue

Three months later; July, Tuesday evening, 6:20pm

 

The gauzy cream colored curtains in Sansa’s front room came to life with a lake-borne breeze, billowing and swelling with life, casting a writhing, dancing lace pattern of shadow on the floor and her coffee table, decorated with a stack of tile coasters and two aromatherapy candles whose flames guttered slightly with the intrusion. A stream of music came from her docking station and seemed to mingle beautifully with the breezes, and occasionally a splash echoed from her tiny bathroom.

The kitchen timer went off, a metallic intruder to the peaceful little scene, and Sansa swore loudly, pausing mid-stroke with her razor pressed to her shin. She was an island in a sea of soapy bathwater, freshly washed hair clipped up on top of her head, a Biore nose strip securely in place. If the timer went off already, then he’d be here in ten minutes. She wanted all of it to be perfect after his week-long trip with her father; the salad was already washed and in the fridge, the chicken was already cooked and cubed, and two bottles of white wine were chilling in her reluctant freezer. Perfect was not him finding her ridding her face of blackheads and shaving a week’s worth of hair off.

She was seriously going to work on her time management, especially now, with the news she had for Sandor. Ah, well. She had had it all under control before; a few weeks in the trenches would bring back any discipline she’d let slip away. But for now she’d rely on the egg shaped kitchen timer to snap her out of her reverie.

She hastily wrapped up her bath, finishing her legs, removing the nose strip and chucking it in the trash, before unplugging the tub and standing up to rinse off under the shower, humming nonsensically under her breath. Sansa turned and rinsed off her back before shutting off the water, drawing back the shower curtain and shrieking first out of shock and then in scandalized delight as Sandor lifted her, slippery and wet as she was, from the bath and down onto the shaggy bathmat. The water pressure was nothing special, but apparently it was strong enough to mute out any background noises.

“Help, help, I’m being burgled,” she cried, all laughter and _quelle horreur,_ but he shut her up with a kiss and two very busy hands. “You rotten man, I should have never given you a key. I wanted to be all ready,” she breathed as he bent an open mouth to her throat; she stretched her arms up towards the ceiling before languorously dropping them around his neck. His t-shirt was dampening from the water on her body, and she felt delightfully stuck to him. She stood on the toes of his boots, using any means necessary to get closer to him.

“I missed you,” he sighed, allowing a hand to leave the dip of her lower back to dive into her hair, releasing it as he pried open the clip and tossed it to the floor. The wet tangle tumbled down against her back, and she shivered from the sudden cold contact. He groaned.

“I missed you too.”

“Good,” and they laughed together as he kissed her again. _So hungry,_ she thought, and it filled her with a smug joy. She pulled his own hair free from its knot, enjoying the smell of him as she unwound it; he grunted as she tugged it to draw his chin up so she could kiss him there. The front of his shirt was soaking through completely, and for a moment she drew back, fussing over him.

“I’m getting you all wet.”

“Funny, I should be doing that to _you,_ ” he rumbled, and she gasped _Sandor_ as he investigated for the telltale sign of his now expert skill of arousing her, her head sagging back, back arched and mouth open from the weight of his eager administrations. He lifted her easily onto the small bathroom sink, both of them making quick work of his belt. They locked eyes for a few seconds, his fingers running up her arms, down again so he could make the easy switch to tucking them beneath her before taking her with the vigor of a man half his age, Sansa as breathless and as hungry as he.

Two hours later, they were lounging in her bay window, empty salad bowls on the floor by the coffee table, the candles still lit and the breezes still teasing the flames with their doom. He was shirtless, as his was still damp, and because she preferred him that way, and she was in an old sundress, faded and stretched out and perfectly comfortable. He had a leg tucked beneath him with the other hanging out the open window, and Sansa’s were draped over his thigh. He smoothed his hand up and down her leg, and she was glad she took the time to shave; it was almost like being worshipped.

They had eaten in a lust-induced stupor, all idiotic grins and revved up appetites, and Sandor had briefly filled her in on Ned’s trip to Louisiana to visit a fellow senator and longtime friend, Howland Reed; the excuse was to discuss a senate bill they were both interested in supporting, the reality was closer to two buddies reconnecting after several years.

It had been hot and muggy and disgusting, but Howland’s kids were interesting and even took him out for a few beers at a local bar. Sandor found he enjoyed zydeco more than blues. She ignored the lighthearted dig and asked more about Jojen; Bran had studied at Tulane, and he and Jojen had been long distance lovers ever since, but she’d never met him. He was a nice guy, Sandor said; a quiet kid but obviously extremely intelligent, and only needed two beers before loosening up and dancing with his freer sister, Meera.

And now they were taking advantage of a cool westward wind that cooled her entire apartment and sent the occasional wave of goosebumps over her skin, which prompted Sandor to pull the hem of her long dress protectively across the smooth skin of her legs, a greedy dragon protecting his treasure. Sansa sipped her wine, the ice cube clinking against her glass, regarding him keenly over its rim.

“What’s in those bright eyes that I can see all the way over here? What little secret’s in there just begging to come out?” He ran a finger along the arch of her foot and she squealed “Hey!” and drew her foot back a bit, before he pulled it back possessively. “No, really, out with it, lass, I know that look. You’ve got news and I’d like to hear it,” he said with a smile.

“I’ve been accepted. Northwestern. They’ll take my credits from the U of A and I can resume my studies this coming semester.” Finally she gave him the triumphant grin that had been plastered on her face when the mail came that morning, before he had shocked her with their impromptu romp in the bathroom.

Sandor whooped and extracted himself from the window to sweep her up in his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I knew you’d do it, little bird,” he said with a wide and open smile, delight and pride in his eyes.

“I did too,” she grinned, hugging him tight. “Of course, you know this means no more late night movies or midnight dinners. I’ll have to study my ass off, but I think since they’re taking my credits from before, I can finish in about a year. Then I can get a job at Starbucks, just like any other self-respecting person with a master’s in English,” she said proudly, and Sandor laughed.

 

Eight months later; March, Saturday afternoon, 3:15pm

 

“I am not arguing about this with you, godsdammit, you are _not_ going if you’re sick.” Sandor was getting fed up with this stubborn bullshit; he loved her like hells but if there was one thing she was impossible with, it was pushing herself and not listening to a soul about it.

“I’m going to be fine,” she snapped at him, looking gorgeous in her black lace dress, hair artfully piled on top of her head like some Grecian goddess, but also ridiculous, curled as she was around the toilet. “The rehearsal dinner kinda went on until ‘til like 4am, _okay?_ I haven’t had that much to drink since I was in undergrad for gods’ sake.”

They were having this fight, the stupidest of fights, in a hotel suite in downtown Seattle, and in two hours Jon Snow was walking down the aisle, but his cousin Sansa, a bridesmaid, couldn’t keep her lunch down.

“Oh gods, do you think it was the oysters?” and Sansa turned green, kicking the bathroom door shut in his face with a stilettoed foot before Sandor’s ears were assaulted with the outcome of Sansa’s likely foggy memory of shooting oysters with tequila at 2am. Come to think of it, that memory wasn’t settling well with him, either.

He sighed, moving away from the door to give her a modicum of privacy in the two room suite, and walked out to the balcony. They had a view of the bay but it was fogged over, and a whip of wind hit him in the face, calming the wave of nausea that had overcome him for a moment. At least Jon and Ygritte had the sense to have an indoor wedding at a botanical garden, despite demanding a cold spring wedding.

Sandor buttoned his vest and suitcoat, and then unbuttoned them. He hated when she was sick, wasn’t anything but 100% all right, and her throwing up made him nervous. He was more than concerned that this was not just a hang over but an illness; she’d been working her ass off this semester, determined, he thought, that she felt obligated to show her mettle since she’d taken so much time off after leaving Arizona, and it was taking its toll on her energy lately. No one had asked questions of her, life happened to everyone and interruptions to it were par for the course, but still, he could feel it radiating off of her sometimes, that need to prove herself.

Thank the stranger she was on her spring holiday, and had been so fastidious in the weeks leading up to it that she could actually have some relative down time. He’d be sure she did, whether he had to lock her in her room with a sleeping pill or hold her down himself.

The toilet flushed, the water ran, and finally the door clicked open, and he was at her side in a heartbeat, squabble forgotten, leaving the sliding door open to fill the room with fresh air for her. She smiled weakly at him, patting her hair as she glanced at the full length mirror to reassure herself that she hadn’t ruined it during her ordeal.

“Oh gods, I look gross,” she said. She gave him sorrowful eyes. “They’re going to know I’m hung over like an idiot, aren’t they?” He pulled her to his chest gingerly, careful of the hairdo, and smoothed a hand down her back. She smelled of mint, trying her best to cover up the entire incident.

“You don’t look gross, just a bit tired, love. And, well, _a little_ hung over,” he admitted, and he chuckled as she thwacked him on the arm. Sandor heaved a sigh, acquiescing to her as always. “Let me get you some Alka-Seltzer and see if that’ll cure what ails you.”

Three hours later, Sansa was dancing with Jon, right as rain once more, while the best man Sam Tarly swung Ygritte around like she was a yo-yo. Sandor was seated at their assigned table, strewn as it was with winter rose petals and candles bobbing in mason jars surrounding vases of flowers, nursing a bourbon beside her father.

“To be perfectly honest, I sort of wish she still felt like shit,” he spoke plainly. “Then maybe she’d learn her lesson about working herself to the bone and then staying up too late like a 19 year old.”

“If you want my advice, son, I’d avoid mentioning age to her. Women tend to rile up over that,” said Ned, still working on his champagne from the earlier toast. Cat gave her husband an icy look, once that did not go unnoticed. He suddenly drained his glass and grinned to Sandor. “What’d I tell you? Come on, my wife, dance with me and make me look a fool as penance.” Cat laughed and stood with him, letting him lead her to the dance floor.

Sandor enjoyed the solitude for a short while, watching his Sansa dance first with Jon and then her brother Robb, before finally getting her wish and having a dance with Jojen. Sandor grinned to watch the expressions he now knew so well; she may look playful, but she was grilling the poor man and putting him through his paces to see if he was good enough for her brother.

Out of nowhere flopped Rickon in the seat previously occupied by his father, pulling a laughing Meera down into his lap. She had to be at least a few years older than him, but neither seemed to mind as he pulled her down for a shameless kiss.

“I see you two are taking advantage of this romantic setting,” Sandor said, shaking his head as he sipped his bourbon. “In a few minutes we’ll be sending _you_ to the marriage bed.”

“Don’t listen to him, Meera, he’s an old man,” Rickon said, pulling away from her kisses to drink deeply from the beer in her hand, which she snatched back to finish herself.

“Get me another, pretty please?” she said, flashing a green eyed gaze at him, who appeared far more smitten than drunk, much to Sandor’s relief. He liked Meera, and he liked Rickon, but he’d side with the girl if Rickon pulled any of his old bullshit. The youngest Stark squeezed her thigh and pushed her gently off him before standing. He walked off with her empty beer, attempting twice to drain any last drop from it before giving up and standing in line.

“He’s quite a young man for you, isn’t he?” Sandor asked lightly, and Meera pinned him with a pointed look. He froze, feeling a fool for forgetting Ned Stark’s advice not even twenty minutes after receiving it.

“That’s an interesting question coming from you, Mr. Clegane,” she said with a sly smile, and Sandor groaned as he realized he was trapped. “What’s age when there’s love?”

Sandor smiled at her, eyes scanning the dance floor as he sought out _his_ love. “Aye, that’s true,” he said softly, kicking back the rest of his drink. He stood up as if on auto-pilot, and Meera laughed knowingly, rising to meet Rickon halfway as he returned from the bar.

Blessedly for his two left feet, the song switched to a slower tempo, and Sandor’s heart swelled when Sansa immediately came to him, cheeks flushed and eyes bright and merry as she put a hand on his shoulder, the other in his own. He pressed a hand to the small of her back, and she caught her breath with a smile on her face in the circle of his arms as they rocked back and forth, side to side, in a small little world fit just for the two of them.

 

April, Friday afternoon, 4:45pm.

 

Sansa was biting her lip, trying to focus on finishing her work for the day before extracting herself from her work (the clashing themes of the old gods versus the newer seven in modern literature) to go for her daily jog. True to her nature, she’d buckled down and ironed out all those wrinkles of tardiness and letting time slip away, though she still relied on that kitchen timer, its once jarring clang of a ring now as rewarding as the school bell before recess.

Time was blocked out in one hour increments; the first hour for study, second for writing, third for her lunch, then back to it, with an hour for her online work, an hour for study, one for writing, and finally ending the day with a late afternoon run. Sandor fell into it as well, often times joining her for either the run or the lunch, whenever Ned could live without him, and then they always spent dinner and the night together.

Tonight they’d be going on a run and then out to celebrate their first year together, after which she’d be sleeping at his house. He’d demanded that at least either Friday or Saturday nights were always at his place, where there was no schoolwork allowed, only all things relaxing. She’d snapped at him about it at first, but eventually, and especially after Jon’s wedding, she had been getting so tired; now she looked forward to the weekends like a regular college kid.

Finally the timer trilled its cry, and for Sansa it was a victory; she’d completed more than she thought she would for the day. She made a scribble in the margin of her notes and slapped shut her laptop with a sigh of relief, and stood to go change into her running stuff. She changed quickly, slipping out of her yoga pants into a shorter, snugger pair of exercise pants that ended below her knees, and sat on her bed to lace her running shoes. Once she stood, her stomach lurched and her vision became a spray of stars, with pinpricks of black taking over from her periphery towards the center of her sight.

“What the hells?” she muttered, a hand to her head as she staggered forward, clinging to the door frame. She had eaten plenty for lunch, and though it was a few hours ago, it should have been more than plenty to tide her over, and usually lack of food was the only thing that gave her dizzy spells. She glanced into her little dining room, the old small table long having been replaced with a bigger, square one that could more adequately hold all the papers, books, the laptop and handful of tea mugs and water glasses she required for a day of study. She chewed the inside of her cheek, staring at her mess of work, thinking hard.

First off, he’d be worried if she couldn’t snap out of it before she met him by the lake, and secondly, she didn’t want another spell hitting on her on the walk there. She tested herself on a walk to the kitchen for some water, feeling better as she slowly drained a small glass, thinking it must be from being cooped up in the cramped dining room for the entire day. Lunch had been ordered in; she had not even taken the steps downstairs into fresh air to pick up food. She needed this run, so she zipped up her hoodie, grabbed her iPod and headed out, determined if not a little weakly.

 

Sandor was waiting by their usual bench, killing time as it seemed she was running a bit behind. He used his time wisely, filling it with pushups and some crunches, before finally she arrived, striding confidently towards him from a little ways up the path. He sat off the side of the path on the grass after his last set of crunches, arms linked around his raised up knees, watching her approach. Her hips swayed like the pendulum of a clock, and the smooth motion still made his pulse kick alive, even after a year. No, _especially_ after a year. Every day they spent together was better than the former, though he still sometimes dreamed of the first time they fell into her bed and woke with a smile. She waved at him and he waved back, finally snapping himself out of it and getting to his feet.

“Excited for dinner tonight?” He asked, kissing her and taking her apartment keys to stash them in the pocket of his shorts.

“More than you even realize,” she said, biting back a grin as she slapped the side of his ass. He made a move to return the favor but she dodged quickly out of his grasp, popped her earbuds in and sprinted away from him. He cursed the seven and sprinted after her, putting his own music in his ears as he easily caught up with her. They jogged together in silence, save for occasionally pointing out something interesting or funny, or stopping the one time for a drink at the water fountain that marked their turn around point.

“You look well,” he said, scrutinizing her as she panted happily beside him while he stretched out a quad before going in for his drink of water.

“I feel well,” she said. Sansa was bouncing on her toes.

“Well, good. Must have had a good day hitting the books, eh?” Most of the time he had to convince her to get out for a run; she loved yoga and exercise in general, but running wasn’t her absolute favorite.

“Mm,” she said, noncommittally, gazing out at the lake beyond his shoulder. “I think I’m ordering a steak tonight.”

“That’s rare for you,” he said, eyebrows raised. What was with her right now?

“Ooh, rare. Yes, I’m going to order it rare. Come on, you slow old thing,” she said, and then she was off, leaving him standing there, gazing stupidly after her. It was usually him spurring her on, teasing her and giving her cause to tear off after him to pay him back for a dirty comment or lascivious look. He shook his head.

“Women,” he muttered.

A dog walker stooped nearby to pick up after his dog with a plastic bag. “Tell me about it, buddy,” the man said, before Sandor had no choice but chase again after his woman before she got too far ahead.

“All right Sansa, you gonna tell me what’s up your sleeve tonight?” Sandor had it all figured out by the time they were seated at a restaurant. He ordered them two glasses of cabernet, and the jumpy way she was sitting in her chair all but confirmed that she had some little surprise cooked up for their anniversary. She was forever doing sweet things for him. There was the night of rose petals all over his bed for no reason at all (they stained the sheets but he couldn’t bear to throw them out), the puppy she’d given him on his name day named Lady (“I was to be your dog, lass,” he’d said, but she’d only laughed and plopped the puppy in his lap, and now Lady was queen of his home), so now what?

The waiter came and dropped off their wine and bread, taking their steak orders before leaving again. Sansa’s merry blue eyes watched the server the entire time, thanking him sweetly before immediately diving into the still-warm rolls. She tore into it, slathering a pat of cold butter into the steaming soft middle before popping the piece into her mouth. She grinned after she swallowed, only to eat the rest of it without even speaking to him. He simply stared at her.

“Care to wash that down with a cask of wine, warrior woman?” He asked, but instead of some snappy comeback, her eyes grew wide and somber, and once she finished destroying her bread roll, she heaved a sigh.

“I’m really going to miss wine,” she said, tilting her head to the side with her sad puppy eyes.

Sandor scoffed, confused beyond all get out by her behavior as it ping-ponged around. “Why? It’s not going anywhere, it’s right th--” His skin felt prickles, slowly from his head to his feet, as realization dawned on him, and his jaw dropped. Her expression melted from what he now understood was a mockery of sorrow, into one of suffused joy. It was already softened from the low light of the restaurant, but now he saw plainly that the old wives’ tales were true, at least for Sansa. She was glowing.

“Are you…” He leaned forward, grasping her hands in his around the small vase in the center of the table. “Little bird, are you telling me you’re _pregnant?_ ” She bit her lower lip but it did nothing to keep an enormous grin from showing up.

“Yes,” and her voice was a tapestry of feeling, all colors and textures of happiness, and he recognized it, for it matched the one deep within his soul. Sandor sucked in a breath, a ragged rush of air, burying his head in his hands, caring not a bit about the spectacle he might be making. “Are you happy, Sandor?” Her voice was tinged with concern.

“You silly woman,” he murmured between his hands, finally grasping enough courage to look up at her, keeper of his heart and now mother of his child. He shook his head in wonder at her and her mysteries. “I’ve never _been_ so happy. How long have you known this?” He asked, thinking she’d known awhile and had held back to surprise him for their anniversary.

“For about two hours now. I got a test on my way to the lake,” she said. “I tested it in the bathroom there. I felt like I was floating the entire run, I was so happy,” she gushed, sipping her water.

His heart lurched in his chest, and he glared at her. “You ran _with a baby inside you_?” he hissed quietly, and she rolled her eyes at him, pushing his wine glass towards him. He looked down at it, and took it up in hand without a second thought, taking three deep swallows before setting it down. There, that was better.

“As long as I don’t do more than what my body’s used to, I’ll be fine, and we literally run almost every single day, Sandor,” and he huffed his begrudging acceptance of that, though he was going to scour the entire internet when they got home to make sure that was true. Home…

“Sansa, we live apart, how are we— I mean, will you move in with me? D’you want me in your place? Bloody seven hells, lass, we don’t even have a room for a baby! Fuck’s sake, your school,” and he sputtered to silence as she leaned over, cupping his face with her hand. _How she can be so calm? My heart is going to rocket out of my body._

“I’m graduating in a little over a month. We’ll figure it out. We’ve still got about, hmm, seven months. I’m two months along, if you’re curious,” and oh, that devious little look. Sandor thought he’d faint.

“Seven?! But we get nine, we _need_ nine to prepare,” Sandor said weakly. Sansa laughed, pushed her untouched wine glass towards him, her long hair falling forward as she sat up. He steadied himself on that, and reached out to brush his fingers through it, finding more comfort there than the wine. But she nudged the glass closer.

“Take it, love. And you’re going to need a couple more of those, I think.”

 

 

October, Sunday night, 7:30pm

 

She was so blessedly happy, and so blessedly tired. The baby shower had been such fun, and so had the nursery painting party last weekend, but Sansa didn’t know how much more celebrating and preparing she had left in her. A snow storm had descended too, sending her guests home early, save for Arya and her mother who had stayed until every last gift was put away and dinner was in the oven. She felt rather snug, albeit big as a whale, curled up on the sofa in the corner, a flannel blanket draped over her.

Sandor had stayed well away for the party, despite their charming new house’s long laundry list of fix-its, and had spent the day holed up with Jory, Bronn and her father, drinking beer and talking about babies. But now he was here with her, a fire in the fireplace and his head resting lightly on the great swell of her belly. He had braved all those past fears after she’d mentioned, just the once after moving in, a constant draft that made her chilly, and he’d sucked it up, bought firewood and hired someone to clean out the chimney before getting right down it.

Her eyes were drifting closed, lulled as she was by the heat of the fire, the smells of roast chicken with lemons and rosemary wafting in from the kitchen with those vintage tiled countertops she loved so much, and mostly the comfort of her Sandor, stretched out beside her on the large sofa they’d just recently purchased, speaking softly to her belly in that rumbling burr of his, his arm curved protectively around both her and the baby who squirmed every so often, bumping its father in the cheek.

“Sansa,” he said out of the blue, claiming her, pulling her from the arms of sleep. Her eyes opened and she gazed down at him as he looked up at her, gray eyes searching for something.

“Mm?” she hummed, combing her fingers lazily through the uneven hair on his upturned side. He’d seemed to forget about those scars a lifetime ago; she could stroke and pet and kiss him now, gaze at him and call him gorgeous, and he no longer scowled, flinched or looked away. She smiled.

“I know we’ve talked about it, but I was thinking…” He cut himself off, glancing down, spanning her belly with a large hand as a mighty kick briefly distracted both of them.

“Sandor, we don’t need to get married. I’m not scared you’ll run off and leave us, and you know I’m certainly not going anywhere.” She chuckled at her joke; indeed, after all the preparation they’d done in the past six months, she didn’t think she’d ever leave the couch again except to go pee half a hundred times.

“Ah, well that’ll be a problem then,” he said, shifting slightly, retrieving something from his pocket. He set it down on the crown of her great belly, and Sansa gasped as a lick of firelight ignited the deepest blue stone she’d ever seen. “Seeing as I’ve already bought this.”

Sansa wordlessly held out her left hand, and Sandor’s face broke out into a happy grin as he slid it easily on her finger; _he must have sized me recently_ , she thought, thinking of her pregnancy-swollen fingers. She’d resize it after the baby came. “Blue for your Tully eyes,” he murmured.

“Are you going to wear a kilt at the wedding?” she asked, staring in awe at the jewel, her mind’s eye captured by a wild Scottish hill and a stone sept, a ring of flowers in her hair, their child in a white gown and he in his tartan, and Sandor barked a laugh.

“So, I take it that’s a yes?”

“That’s a yes, Sandor Clegane,” she said, and he kissed her stomach before scooting up to kiss her fully on the mouth, to let her wind her arms around him. “I’m going to be your wife.”

“Mrs. Clegane, second of her name,” he said against her mouth, and Sansa’s heart was full to bursting.

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who stuck through to the sappy sticky end, haha. Thanks for all the feedback and encouragement on my first fic, I can't wait to try more. :)
> 
> The mood behind this fanfic can best be explained by the fact that I have listened to "Hear Me Out" by Frou Frou on repeat while writing this, lol.


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